


Stuck In The Business With You

by blackgoliath



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Arranged Marriage, Canon-typical language, M/M, Sort Of, bg relationships being docnut and tuckington, eventually, for the record, it's like RVB future but without the war, references to alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-09-14 15:56:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 60,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16915869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackgoliath/pseuds/blackgoliath
Summary: Simmons has loved Grif since childhood. Too bad that their marriage, arranged by their parents, doesn't live up to the fantasies Simmons had built up in his head.





	1. Time Keeps On Slipping

**Author's Note:**

> so the setting kind of is the same 'basically modern times but with space travel' that the show works with, minus the war.
> 
> of course, none of these characters are mine, all copyrighted to roosterteeth. 
> 
> today's theme: childhood pining

Simmons had been in love with Dexter Grif since he was six years old.

He didn't think about it like that then, because of course he didn't, he was _six._ He was a gangly stickbug of a boy with freckles that crowded his face until they looked like one giant mole and knobbly elbows and knees and feet that were already bigger than they needed to be so that he kept tripping over himself. He wore glasses, his red hair stuck up at odd angles, and his entire everything screamed _nerd alert_.

He met Grif through his father, because his father had work friends, and then his father had Work Friends, and Grif was the son of the latter. The woman who would come by their house sometimes was plump and beautiful, to his eyes, and her smile always felt kind, and she seemed like she gave very good hugs. Not like his father. His father didn't like hugs, or touch, and his mother spent most of her time away On Business (according to his father) so he didn't get to hug her, either. But Mrs. Grif always hugged her son when she arrived and was letting him go to play with Simmons, then again when Grif came back at the end of the visit and they were about to leave. Simmons was envious of that.

Grif had that look about him, too, that 'I'm very huggable' look, even back then. He was eight, and also plump, with soft black curls that Simmons would stare at sometimes when the light was right, because they looked so _shiny._ Even back then, Grif always had some snack in his hand, something greasy or sugary, and his mother never seemed to care, and Simmons was envious of that, too.

And then the adults would retire to the study to talk and Simmons would be left with Grif in the living room, and he'd wrinkle his nose at the snacks and say “That's disgusting,” and Grif would say “Bite me,” and somehow that made Simmons wish they could spend the whole day playing together.

They couldn't, of course. Mrs. Grif's meetings with his father lasted an hour or two at most, and Simmons and Grif would have barely gotten through a Mario Kart tournament by the time they were done. When their parents would emerge, forcing an end to their games, Simmons would poke Grif in his soft side and say, “I would've beaten you,” and Grif would sneer, “Like hell you would've.”

Grif got to swear, and his mother would just laugh. His father said nothing about it, yet Simmons knew that if he said what Grif said, he would be in a _lot_ of trouble.

He still said it, when it was just the two of them, and Grif would give him this conspiratorial grin that always had Simmons grinning back.

The Grifs moved away when Simmons was eleven and Grif was thirteen. Simmons didn't know why. He only knew that Grif's little sister Kaikaina had started joining them when Mrs. Grif came to talk to his father, and Simmons kind of hated it, kind of a lot, because Kai would always wiggle her way between them and whine when she lost and generally take all of Grif's attention. And Grif let her, which Simmons didn't understand, and even would tuck her up under his arm when she got too rambunctious and Simmons was _definitely_ envious of that.

He didn't get to say goodbye, when the Grifs moved away. His father mentioned it over breakfast one morning, while staring down at a datapad, just before Simmons had to leave for school. When he came home, he locked himself in his room and cried angry tears into his pillow, making sure he wasn't loud enough for his father to hear.

His mother was Away On Business. No one hugged him.

\- - -

The next time he saw Dexter Grif, he was seventeen, and Grif was nineteen. There was some big party off-planet – a get-together in celebration of some big deal his father had negotiated, and Mrs. Grif had moved her family again, to a colony close enough that she could attend, and of course she brought her children. He saw them enter, the fancy ballroom of some fancy mansion strewn with fancy decorations, and he couldn't keep himself from watching.

Simmons wasn't as gangly by then, had sprouted to an impressive height, finally growing into his feet. He'd even filled out, though not enough to stop being a stickbug, what with the height and all. He’d gotten contacts so the kids at school couldn’t break his glasses anymore. Grif, meanwhile, had grown too; not as tall as Simmons, though he was stockier than he'd been when they were kids. He still looked huggable. His hair was longer. Simmons thought of all the aborted communications, all the times he'd sent messages and gotten nothing back for days and how the conversation died immediately anyway when he did and he buried himself in the wine he'd taken from a servant when his father's back was turned.

He still saw Kai enter behind her brother. She looked fucking _stunning_ and Simmons thought, maybe I should ask her out, she's beautiful and she was smiling and he'd just fumble his words when he tried to talk to her but maybe she'd find that charming, and you could see her resemblance to Grif, the curve of her jaw and the brown of her eyes and Jesus he needed to stop thinking right now.

Nobody talked to him, not really. He didn't count the times business acquaintances of his father's would drift by and make small talk, because he was terrible at small talk and it wouldn't take them long to move on to mingling elsewhere. He didn't move away from the corner where he stood, carefully leaning against the wall, another glass in his hand that was water this time because he could see his father carefully watching him from across the room. Watching to see how well he'd perform, what connections he'd make. He spent a lot of time pretending he was very interested in the large potted plant beside him.

This worked pretty well for a while, until a very familiar voice – albeit deeper, huskier – said to him, “This party really fucking sucks.”

Simmons jolted, nearly spilling water all over his nicely pressed suit with the maroon jacket. His mother, who had actually been home for this event, had told him it clashed with his hair. He'd pretended he hadn't heard her; he liked this color.

“Seriously,” Grif continued, leaning on the wall beside him. He held a plate practically towering with food, and Simmons wondered how much of the buffet was actually left. “What am I supposed to do here. Dance? Fuck that. Shmooze with some rich assholes who just want to fuck my mom? Double fuck that.”

“Um.” Simmons was far too aware of how his heart was beating, of how Grif was standing close enough for their arms to touch. Didn't he realize how much of Simmons' space he was invading? He wanted to say that it was stupid to think the people in this room were only talking to Grif's mom so they could fuck her, which was honestly a train of thought he did _not_ want to go down, and instead his mouth said, “My father's parties always fucking suck. I hate coming to them.”

Grif looked at him, jaw working on whatever it was he had just popped into his mouth. His cheek bulged like a cartoon character's with all the food he had in there. Simmons was repulsed, and couldn't stop looking at his face. “Then how about we blow this joint?”

“What--”

“We've both agreed it's stupid, we're just going to spend the night standing here while freaky rich people come up and try to talk to us, what's the point in staying? They won't notice.”

“They _will_ notice,” Simmons huffed. He realized he'd stiffened his back in offense, and that their height difference felt more real when they were this close. “Father's friends will come looking, and they'll tell him they can't find me, and--”

“'Oh no, my daddy might be upset with me',” Grif said in a high, mocking voice. Simmons flushed, wanted to punch him. “Grow up, they'll just think you're in the bathroom.”

“And they'll think you're in the pantry, is that it, stuffing your face?” Simmons snarled. Grif looked at him, and for a split second, Simmons felt something cold, and then--

Grif shrugged. “Probably,” he said. “So are we going or not?”

Grif insisted on finishing his plate of food before they left, which gave Simmons time to finish his water, and then time to finish another glass of wine. It was a shallow glass, at least, because that was how rich people drank. And after Grif had deposited his plate on the nearest table – sloppily enough that it immediately fell onto the floor and it took a _Herculean effort_ from Simmons not to go back and put it, properly, with the other dirty plates – they left.

They went to a diner, and they took an Uber, because as soon as they'd reached a hundred feet from the entrance of the mansion Grif was complaining that his feet hurt, and c'mon Simmons, you know there wasn't anything open at this time of night in this part of town, and Uber was still a thing and he wasn't going to _walk_ all the way to some diner in the middle of the night, Simmons--

They took an Uber and wound up in front of one of the dingiest hole-in-the-wall diners he'd ever seen.

“Fuck, finally,” Grif groaned when they settled themselves into a booth, “Some good fucking food.”

“You ate an entire plate of food,” Simmons pointed out, “Less than a half hour ago.”

“That wasn't _real_ food,” Grif insisted. “That was like...emptiness, twirled on a platter with garnish on top so that those rich fucks felt fancy.”

“You _ate_ _an entire plate of food.”_

Grif rolled his eyes. “I just told you it didn't count, what more do you want from me?” He brought his menu up in front of his face, then, and Simmons couldn't say anything else because he was absolutely not arguing with a creepy smiling emoji logo on a plastic menu at ten o'clock at night. Why was that their logo? Who decided that? He very seriously considered asking for a manager.

Simmons concentrated on his own menu, and as he scanned his options, face hidden by the tall wall of plastic, he grimaced. This...this could hardly be called food. Everything he saw had a fat count that increased his cholesterol just by looking at it. How the hell was he supposed to eat here. How was he supposed to consume any of this food when he was fairly certain he'd have a heart attack before the night was over.

The waitress arrived while he was still deliberating, and she was, of course, very pretty, as women tended to be, and he found he couldn't speak at all.

“Are you ready to order?” she asked, and Simmons swallowed and busied himself with his menu, even as he felt the tips of his ears burn.

“I'll have a Coke,” Grif said, immediately, “And the pizza burger, and an order of fries, and the chicken nuggets, with barbeque sauce. Oh, and I'll take the buffalo wings appetizer, too.”

How could he eat so much. How could he fit so much inside of his (wonderfully chubby) body. Grif certainly wasn't skinny, yet Simmons still had difficulty imagining where all of that food would go.

He gathered his wits about him and opened his mouth to order, and--

“A water for my buddy too. And a Caesar salad.” A glance Simmons' way, while he was currently peeking out from behind his menu and too stunned to speak, “And do you have like...carrot sticks or something?”

The waitress' glance between them was so subtle that Simmons nearly missed it. “We have a vegetable appetizer platter.”

“Yeah, then he'll get that. Thanks.”

The waitress wrote all of this down, and before Simmons could even collect himself to refute anything, she walked away. His menu lightly _thwapped_ against the table when he dropped it, because that was about all a thin plastic menu could do, before he glared at Grif.

“Who said you could order for me?” he asked, accusatory.

“You were taking forever.” Grif had already folded his own menu, set it on the edge of the table for the waitress to grab when she came back. “And we both know you hate junk food. Just enjoy your fucking salad, asshole.”

Simmons tried not to blush, but it was very much in his nature to blush, it was practically imprinted on his DNA that any time he felt even slightly flustered his freckled, pockmarked, pale-as-hell skin would turn a blotchy red, and there was nothing he could do about it. He very purposefully kept a scowl on his face while he turned red so that Grif wouldn't see the surprised pleasure, so that Grif wouldn't know he had never expected the man across from him to remember his preferences for vegetables and greens six years later.

“Maybe I should just throw it out,” he said stubbornly, and even before he could shift uncomfortably at the thought Grif was snorting.

“And waste food? No way. You can't play that game with me, Simmons.”

Simmons growled. He ate the whole appetizer platter, and most of the salad. He was seventeen, and kind of a giant, and burned more calories just existing than should honestly be allowed. And all the while, Grif sat across from him inhaling all of that disgusting greasy food he'd ordered and looking so fucking smug.

Simmons kicked him under the table, and the yelp Grif gave was more satisfying than his entire meal.

\- - -

They returned late, via another Uber. Grif had whined as Simmons forced him into paying for this one. While the ride back had been filled with scathing conversation about the guests of the party, they were both quiet when they returned to the mansion and found their parents outside, waiting for them. Grif's mother pulled him away and Simmons almost thought he heard affection in her voice as she led her son to their waiting limo. Something in him ached.

Simmons' father had no affection. Only disappointment. Simmons had known this would happen when he'd left, and he'd gone anyway. Knowing didn't take away from how much it stung, how his shoulders drooped as he was berated, how he wished he hadn't left in the first place, even if Grif had been right, even if that party had _really_   _fucking sucked._

His mother was nowhere to be seen. After his father was done, there was a tense, quiet ride back to the hotel, and Simmons went to his room, and he fell onto his bed and tried not to think about anything.

\- - -

Because he was Simmons, he kept thinking about everything.

He was still awake, staring at the ceiling, when his phone buzzed. He was groggy and out of it and he groped for the phone he knew he'd left on the nightstand and his clumsiness nearly knocked it onto the floor but he did, finally, grab it, and turned it on, and saw--

[ _hey u ok dude_ ]

Simmons didn't know this number. At least, he didn't think he did.

[ _May I ask who this is?_ ]

He didn't have to wait long for an answer.

[ _fuck its 3am n ur still talkin like ur mr darcy_ ]

Oh. Simmons checked the name at the top of his screen, vision bleary in the lack of light. He'd taken out his contacts. He knew even holding his phone at a quarter arm's length meant he couldn't see shit. The name was right there, because his father had given him the updated number just before the dinner, and even as Simmons typed it in he hadn't thought he'd ever need it, and how did Grif already have _h_ _is_ new number--

[ _What do you want, Grif_ ]

He didn't even put a period on that. A subtle fuck you to Grif, a sign that he _absolutely hates him_ for texting like this in the middle of the night. Because he had, of course, been sleeping. Or at least, on his way to sleeping.

[ _just told u kissass_ ]

Simmons bristled. It had been a long time since Grif had called him that, a nickname he'd come up with around when Simmons was ten. Like Grif could fucking talk, the fucker.

[ _Yes I'm fine. And I'm going back to sleep. Leave me alone._ ]

He put his phone on mute, set it back on the nightstand. He saw how it lit up a moment later with Grif's reply, and he ignored it. He was going back to sleep, and he wasn't dealing with Grif's questions, and that was the end of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm blackgoliath on tumblr and bulkhead on pillowfort
> 
> and here's some [real good art](https://venochu.tumblr.com/post/181830521473/this-worked-pretty-well-for-a-while-until-a-very) from this chapter!


	2. Wedding Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next time Simmons saw Grif, he was twenty-five, and Grif was twenty-seven, and it was their wedding day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for mentions of vomiting at the end, though I don't go in depth, and alcohol use. 
> 
> today's theme: Simmons is not good at this. Any of it.

The next time Simmons saw Grif, he was twenty-five, and Grif was twenty-seven, and it was their wedding day.

It didn't feel real. None of it had felt real, not when his father told him of the plans he and Mrs. Grif had come up with, not when he was forced to go through fittings for his tux (he wasn't asked anything about the theme, or colors, or catering, because of course his father was handling that) and it didn't feel real when they pulled up in front of the building where he would get married.

It wasn't a church, of course. Simmons’ family had been some sort of Catholic for so long he was sure it was part of their genes at this point, though Simmons had never taken to it well. Somehow the thought of loading himself with _more_ guilt was unbearable, even for him. Grif's family, though, they weren't affiliated with a religion that had churches, in fact Simmons didn't know if Grif was even religious at all (guess he'd find out) and so instead they were getting married in one of Mrs. Grif's mansions.

Even though the ceremony would be pretty short - no need for vows and best men and shit when you're marrying a perfect stranger - the place was decked out, and full of his father’s work friends and his father’s Work Friends and as he was led off to an upstairs room to get ready he felt slightly ill.

He'd imagined his wedding, sometimes. And sure, maybe sometimes the person standing next to him in his fantasy had brown skin and long black curls and love handles, but he'd never imagined it would be like _this._

“Remember what we practiced,” his father was saying, as he knotted up Simmons’ tie, and Simmons stared at him blankly.

Irritation bloomed in his father’s eyes and Simmons said, “Oh! Right. Yeah. What we practiced,” just a little too quickly.

“This union is very important,” his father said, in that tone of voice Simmons knew was actually saying _don't fuck this up_. “With it, our families will have stronger control of our combined companies when it's your time to take over for me.”

“Right,” Simmons said, imagining himself at the head of a board meeting of intimidating-looking old white men and trying not to have a stroke right then and there.

“And Ailani believes you'll be a good influence on her son. He needs someone to give him structure and discipline.”

Simmons remembered Grif purposefully spilling an entire bag of chips all over the couch one visit because Simmons had complained about the crumbs. His father had made him vacuum the couch until there wasn't a single one left; it had taken him two hours.

“Right,” he said.

“Her new husband has seemed to help her in that regard.” Simmons felt his skin crawl. His father never said anything outright - that wasn't how he did things - but Simmons knew the bite in his voice when he thought someone was _distasteful._ It was there sometimes for Mrs. Grif, when gossip went around about her flightiness, though Simmons knew it well because it was usually focused on him.

“So,” his father continued, “you ought to be able to do the same for her son.”

“Yes, sir,” Simmons said, automatically, at the expectant look on his father’s face. Simmons Sr. studied his expression, then nodded.

“Good.” He tightened the tie around Simmons’ throat, a noose made of expensive silk. “The ceremony will be starting soon. Make sure your shoes are polished.”

\- - -

The wedding ceremony was taking place in the main hall of the mansion, between two grand staircases that cupped the edges of the room. The room was full of guests - most invited by his father and Grif's mother, though Simmons had been allowed to invite ‘one or two acquaintances’ - and they all sat on either side of an aisle that Simmons’ father was currently leading him down. There was no music, only a polite hush, and Simmons certainly didn't feel like he was being escorted down the aisle. His father had them walking at a brisk pace toward where Grif stood with the official who would marry them.

And Grif looked...Simmons forced himself to swallow, though it was difficult when his mouth was so dry. Grif had cleaned up, for once, the same way Simmons had cleaned up, and the difference was striking. Gone were the jeans and t-shirts, replaced by a tailored black tuxedo that trimmed Grif’s bulk into something more streamlined. His hair had been braided down his back and it looked so _soft_ under the lights that Simmons had to clench his fist to keep from trying to reach out and touch it. He wore the same expression as usual - bored and dull, like this wasn’t one of the most important days of his life - but when he looked at Simmons, his gaze dragged along Simmons’ body in a way that made him flush, and he thought he saw something flicker across Grif’s features.

Whatever it had been, by the time Simmons reached him in front of the official, it was gone, and the bored look was back.

“Let’s get this over with,” Grif said, looking at the official. Simmons felt a pang in his chest, and reacted as he usually did to Unpleasant Feelings.

“Try not to act so excited about it, numb nuts,” he snapped.

Grif rolled his eyes while the official very pointedly said nothing.

Because this wasn’t a church, or a priest, or religious in any way, the marriage rites (if one could call them that) were just as streamlined as Grif’s stocky body (oh God don’t think about that right now) and it didn’t take long to get to the part where they agreed that, yes, they would be married, they would be together through thick and thin, etc, etc, etc. Simmons could only be glad that the ceremony didn’t require he hold Grif’s hands while they stood there; he wasn't sure how he well he would have held it together.

When it was done, when they were pronounced officially married _without_ having to kiss (Simmons would definitely not held it together then) and had been given the rings (plain, boring, simple gold with no unique features), Grif moved away as soon as he could. The reception was next, when they would filter into the ballroom, where food had been prepared and a small stage set up for the wedding band. A band that was more like a mini orchestra that only played classical music, and while Simmons liked classical music, it made for, in his opinion, a lackluster backdrop to a wedding reception.

He didn’t see Grif in the crowd, though he had a very good idea where his new...where Grif would be. So he avoided the food, fiddling with his ring without realizing he was doing it, and went to find a corner to hover in until he’d have to emerge for their wedding dance.

Except he wasn’t allowed to hover at all.

“Simmons!” The voice was familiar, and cheerful, and as Simmons turned to look in its direction he remembered why he knew it. Donut, standing out quite impressively in his pink jacket, was muscling his way through the other guests with a bemused-looking Doc, wearing an equally attention-grabbing purple jacket, in tow. It was like being approached by a two-man gay pride parade and Simmons immediately regretted inviting them as his ‘one to two acquaintances’ even though they were, if he was honest with himself, the closest thing to friends that he had.

“Hi,” Simmons said. He had a glass of water in his hand, and right now he wished he'd gone with his first instinct to grab one of those martinis that the waiters were carrying around.

“I still can’t believe we’re at your _wedding!_ You know, no one in the office believed you’d ever get married, they thought you’d be a virgin forever, but I knew they were wrong.” Donut had an undercut that he could still easily flip as if it were a full head of rich golden locks. “They just don’t know you like I do.”

Simmons arranged his features into something neutral. “Thanks.”

“We wanted to congratulate you,” Doc added, nervously. Not that Simmons could ever remember a time when Doc had _not_ sounded nervous. “So, um. Congratulations!”

“Thanks,” Simmons repeated, and Doc wilted. 

“Oh, don’t sound so _down_. Marriage being the end of your life is a straight myth.” Simmons’ gaze somehow naturally fell to where Doc and Donut’s hands were still joined, and he saw when Donut gently squeezed the fingers laced through his own, saw how Doc’s posture relaxed somewhat. They were so carefree, together. His gut tightened.

“It’s actually the beginning!” Donut was saying. “You have the rest of your lives together, futures intertwined, possibilities open and waiting to be filled--”

“Donut, can you rub some brain cells together for once in your fucking waste of a life?” Simmons interrupted, and Donut was actually shocked enough to stop talking. Simmons’ tone had been much sharper than it usually was when he was throwing out insults. “This marriage was _planned_. Neither of us had a choice in the matter. It wasn’t true love or whatever bullshit you’re thinking.”

It didn’t work. If anything, Donut recovered and grew more excited, his eyes sparkling, Doc at his side looking lost. Though to be fair Doc always looked lost.

“It’s an _arranged marriage?_ Ohmagod, that’s even _better_ \--”

Simmons knew where this was going. Donut had surely seen something like this in one of his movies or his stories and was going to get into detail on how romantic the whole thing was and Simmons absolutely could not deal with that right now.

“Wow I am really hungry!” Simmons said, loudly, cutting through Donut’s babbling again. “Thanks for the talk, guys, but I’m gonna get me some food. Bye!”

It wasn’t a smooth exit. At all. Simmons practically ran away from the people _he’d invited._ Why did he do that. Why didn’t he have real friends, instead of those two. Why did Donut always have to pry, when he wasn’t trying to unload every popular diet or beauty article he’d ever seen into Simmons’ lap. He could’ve just given the same insincere ‘congratulations’ Doc did and moved on and it would have been _fine._

To make matters worse, he didn’t make it to the buffet, which. Was probably for the best, actually, considering Grif was very likely camping next to it. He was intercepted halfway across the room by Grif’s mother, who, eyes shining with tears, immediately wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close.

Simmons stiffened. He hadn’t been hugged in years.

Ailani Grif didn’t seem to notice. “Oh, it’s so good to see you!” she crowed, and got up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, and _what was happening._ “Seeing you with my Dex, I couldn’t be happier. You’re going to be so good together.”

Simmons could only give a weak laugh, arms trapped at his sides, unsure of what to do here. Mrs. Grif was even shorter than her son, her head resting naturally against Simmons’ chest as she continued to hug him. He couldn’t even get his arms free to awkwardly pat her on the back. He didn’t know how to get out of this alive.

“Um,” Simmons said. “Thank you. I hope so.”

Mrs. Grif squeezed him so tightly he thought he might snap in half, and was only saved when a craggy-looking man came up and prised her loose.

“So,” the stranger said, arm around Mrs. Grif (wait she was remarried she wasn’t Mrs. Grif anymore, was she, he had no idea who she was now, shit, it was too late to ask), “You Simmons?”

“Um,” Simmons said, again. “Yes?”

“Finally! I’ve been looking to meet ya!” The man threw out his free hand, and Simmons stared at it before slowly extending his own to shake. “I’m Grif’s stepdad,” the man proclaimed, his grip on Simmons’ hand like a vice. “You can call me Sarge.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Sarge,” Simmons said, as they shook hands and Simmons did his absolute best not to show how much Sarge was crushing his hand bones.

“I hear you’re a real uptight know-it-all! That’s good, Grif’s a lazy sonuvabitch, he could use a man who’ll whip him into shape! If you can manage that, you’ll make a fine son-in-law, Simmons!”

It was a compliment with a sting in the tail and yet also the nicest thing Simmons had ever been told. He found himself beaming, even with the pain in his hand. Somewhere in the back of his mind he filed away the fact that Mrs. Grif (Sarge?) didn’t even seem fazed at the insults to her son, but that was something to be thought of and repressed another day. Because right now Sarge was saying,

“You’ve got a good grip! Not as good as my son’s, but it’s better than the other pansies I’ve been meeting around here.”

A good grip. A fine son-in-law. And this was Grif’s stepfather, which meant he was now Simmons’ father, in a sense. A father who already, within the first five minutes of meeting him, thought he was worthwhile. Sort of.

Simmons was in love.

“Thank you, sir!” he said enthusiastically, still shaking Sarge’s hand. He realized a moment too late that he was supposed to let go, and he could feel his ears turning red when he finally dropped his hand.

“Looks like you've met Sarge.” Grif’s voice came from beside him, making Simmons jump, and how the fuck did such a large man keep sneaking up on him like that.

“Grif! I see you've found the refreshments!” Sarge sounded annoyed. Simmons glanced to his side and saw why - Grif did, indeed, have a plate loaded with food, just like he had the last time Simmons saw him at a party.

“It _is_ for me,” Grif drawled, “considering this is my wedding and all.”

“And yet you're already ignoring your husband for food. Typical Grif!”

“Honey,” said...Ailani (it was so awkward to think of her like that, but Mrs. Sarge was weirder), “I could use some refreshments myself. Shall we?”

They left, heading in the direction that Grif had presumably come from, leaving Simmons and Grif alone. If you could count the two of them standing together in the middle of a crowded ballroom ‘alone’.

Simmons felt a bit lost. Shifting on his feet, he said, “You know, your stepdad is pretty great.”

Grif, whose attention had gone back to his food, stopped and stared at Simmons.

“You did just hear him insult me in front of my mom, didn't you? I'm pretty sure you were right fucking there.”

“Well, yeah,” Simmons said, “But it's not like he was _wrong._ ”

Grif stared at him a moment longer, until Simmons started getting squirmy, then said, “You're still such a kiss-ass.”

Simmons immediately flipped from anxious to angry. “And you're still a fucking slob!”

“What a great way to start our marriage.” Grif sighed. “Getting insulted at the most boring wedding reception ever.”

“Yeah, well, they didn't exactly let me book the Barenaked Ladies.”

“The Barenaked--” Grif snorted, and Simmons’ face burned. “ _That's_ who you'd book for your wedding reception?”

“I like their music!” Simmons said, defensively, and Grif’s shit-eating grin only grew.

“God, you're still a fucking nerd, too.”

A waiter came by, then, offering them a serving tray with more martinis. Grif, hands full, declined; Simmons took two. Grif almost looked hopeful until Simmons downed both of them himself and passed the empty glasses off to the next attendant to come their way.

“Jesus, dude, are you trying to get wasted?”

“Yes,” Simmons answered immediately. He had decided, after Donut, that he would like to remember as little of his wedding as possible, and he was two drinks in to making that a reality.

Grif eyed him. “We could just ditch, find a bar.”

“You want to--it's our _wedding reception!_ ”

“Yeah, which means it's all about us, so we can do whatever we want.”

Simmons pinched the bridge of his nose. He regretted drinking both martinis so quickly; he should have saved one for this moment.

But. The idea was appealing. Grif was right about one thing - this was the most boring wedding reception ever, and Simmons would very much prefer to be anywhere else but here. It wasn't like the crowd around them was paying them much attention anyway, because it wasn't, actually, all about them. It was another opportunity for the rich to rub elbows and make new connections, and Simmons’ marriage was just the excuse for that. The problem was that if he ditched, his father would be disappointed, and this was supposed to be Simmons’ first step in proving himself to Simmons Sr. once and for all.

Plus, he'd _actually_ be alone with Grif.

While he debated with himself, Grif just stood there eating, unconcerned with his internal battle. Finally, Simmons said,

“After the wedding dance. There's no cake, so that's the only part they'll expect from us. After we do that, we can ditch and they'll just think we went off to...you know.”

Even referencing it had Simmons flushing again, but Grif was too busy groaning to rib him for it.

“But that's so _far_ from now,” Grif whined.

“That's the deal. After the wedding dance.”

Grif worked his jaw, then said, “ _Fine_. Gives me time to pregame anyway. You see where those waiters with the drinks went?”

Simmons pointed, and Grif wandered off, leaving Simmons alone again. Time to get himself something to eat to mitigate those martinis, considering his Irish heritage only went _so_ far, and then find another corner to hide in where even Donut couldn't find him.

It mostly worked. People still drifted over while Simmons snacked on hors d'oeuvres, offering him insincere congratulations that were very easy to smile and accept. Nobody stayed much longer than that - his inability to small talk was well known in his father’s circles by now - and Simmons was immensely grateful for that.

Until it came time for the wedding dance, and his stomach twisted itself into a knot.

He'd been trying not to think about this part, but he wasn’t nearly as buzzed as he’d thought he’d be by now, so he _had_ , of course, been thinking about it. Those martinis must have been weaker than usual. Like his father knew to expect this. _Damnit._

He would honestly have rather he had to feed Grif cake, as disgusting as that interaction would likely have been. But this, a dance, where he'd have to stand close to Grif, hold his hand, gently sway to soft, romantic music--

“Come on, idiot, this is our cue.” Grif, at his elbow. The fantasy that had been forming in his mind immediately fizzled out.

The space the party had been using as a dance floor cleared as Simmons and Grif stepped onto it. Simmons already felt his heart speeding up as, for the second time that day, all eyes were on him. His nerves at having to be close to Grif, to hold his hand, were overpowering his irritation and mixing with the dread that sat like a lump in his stomach.

When they reached the middle of the dance floor they stopped, and Grif turned to face him. Simmons could tell his face was red, but if asked he'd play it off as hating all the attention. When Grif stepped closer, putting a hand on Simmons’ shoulder, holding out the other for Simmons to take, his heart flipped in his chest. This close, he could _smell_ Grif, the earthy cologne he was wearing. Simmons wanted to put his nose in Grif’s hair and inhale, but instead he put one hand on Grif’s waist and, knowing his palms were sweaty, took Grif’s with the other.

“Don't step on my toes with those boats you call feet,” Grif said, and annoyance flared, overtaking the anxiety, and fuck if something in him wasn't grateful to Grif for that.

The dance was awkward, in a way that made it clear neither of them were much for dancing. Simmons looked everywhere but at Grif’s face, and concentrated so much on keeping his feet from going anywhere near Grif’s toes that he couldn't think as much about how he was holding Grif in his arms.

And then Grif said, “Dude, can you chill a little? You look like you're constipated.”

Simmons’ eyes snapped back to Grif’s face, saw the smirk he wore. Simmons scowled.

“I'm _trying_ not to step on your delicate toes.”

“I get that, but seriously, relax. It's just one stupid dance, and once it's over we can blow this joint and get shit-faced and not remember anything tomorrow.”

That did have some of the tension leaving Simmons’ shoulders. “I know, I know. I just. Don't like everyone staring at me.”

He kept his eyes on Grif’s face so he could avoid seeing just that, while Grif glanced around them.

“People are starting to come out on the dance floor,” he reported. “They're not all looking at us anymore.”

“Really?” Simmons relaxed further, even smiled a little. “Thank God.”

Grif wore an odd expression, but didn’t say anything else. The rest of the dance went smoothly; Simmons didn’t step on Grif’s toes once, even if he thought about doing it out of spite. The dance floor did fill with other couples, all gently swaying to the orchestral love song the band was playing. Simmons kept his mind on getting out of this reception so that he didn’t focus too much on how _good_ Grif felt in his grasp, how warm he was, how the smell of him was making Simmons a little dizzy.

Or maybe that was those two weak martinis.

As the final notes faded away and the dance ended, Grif did something unexpected. He leaned forward, close enough that Simmons could feel Grif’s breath on his ear as Grif murmured,

“Meet me out back in ten.”

Simmons’ cheeks burned. Grif was pulling away, leaving the dance floor, and it took a moment for Simmons to regain his wits enough to do the same. He told himself Grif had done that to make their ruse look real, to make everyone think they were disappearing off to fuck. Because even if their marriage was arranged, they were the evening’s Happy Couple, right?

Simmons slipped out of the ballroom, hurried upstairs to the room where he’d gotten dressed. There, he shucked his tuxedo jacket and tie, which left him….still looking overdressed for whatever dive bar Grif had in mind. He quickly changed into the clothes he’d worn there, a button-up and high-end jeans, grabbed his wallet, keys, and phone, and left.

It was a simple manner, from there, of heading back down to the main floor and then finding a back door to leave through. Grif’s mother’s mansion had a much simpler floorplan than one of his father’s might. He stepped outside into the warm evening air, onto a back patio that led out into a luxurious garden populated with expensive and, honestly, extremely gaudy statues. Well, whatever. His father collected alien artifacts, the rich generally tended to have some sort of odd collection they were passionate about.

Grif, being Grif, arrived almost ten minutes late. Simmons had started pacing during the wait, nervously checking his phone for the time, thinking that at any moment his father was going to burst into the backyard and ask him just what he thought he was doing out here. And then finally, _finally_ the back door opened and it wasn’t his father, it was Grif, his hair undone and loose around his shoulders, wearing khakis and an orange t-shirt, looking as if he hadn’t just been dressed up in a fancy tux twenty minutes ago.

“I thought you said ten minutes!” Simmons complained.

“I did.” Grif shrugged, uncaring. “I wanted something to go.” He produced one of the largest cupcakes Simmons had ever seen, and took a massive bite out of it. Simmons didn’t even pretend not to be disgusted.

“Great, fine, whatever. Do you have a place in mind, or am I going to have to look something up?”

“No, I know a place.” Grif came closer, off of the patio and onto the grass where Simmons stood. “I’ll give you an address and we can get a ride there.”

He did, and Simmons tapped it into his phone. The bar was about a fifteen minute drive, from the looks, which wasn’t surprising, considering the mansion wouldn’t be anywhere near a drinking establishment.

“Okay,” Simmons said, once he’d put in the request for a driver, “What are the chances of me getting mugged and/or someone starting a bar fight while we’re there?”

Grif raised an eyebrow. “You ever do anything without worrying about it? Ever?”

“Of course I do!”

“Yeah, I’m taking that as a no. How long does it take you to brush your teeth in the morning? ‘What if I do it wrong? What if I don’t brush enough, or I brush too much? What if my daddy sees I missed a spot--’”

“At least I brush my teeth,” Simmons snapped back. “I’m sure you can’t find time between shoving all that food into your face.”

They were making their away around the mansion, toward the front drive where the Uber would be picking them up. Grif only snorted, infuriatingly, as they stepped out onto the asphalt.

“‘Course I brush my teeth,” he said. “Once a day.”

Simmons spluttered, his focus shifting away from defensive to incredulous. “Once a-- _once a day_ ?! You have to brush your teeth at least _twice_ a day, if not more, if you can help it, and of course floss at least once--”

“I stand by my earlier point,” Grif interrupted, “that you cannot, in fact, be chill about anything.”

Simmons ignored that, and was working himself up into a very long, very detailed rant on why proper tooth care was important when their ride arrived. Simmons, riled, not quite thinking straight, wanting to get one up on Grif, yelled “Shotgun!” and proceeded to let himself into the front seat of the car. And then Grif got into the back, and in the rearview mirror Simmons could see how Grif was smirking, and it hit him.

This was a stranger’s car. And he was…sitting up front with a stranger.

_Shit._

It was too late to do anything about this. If Simmons got out and went to the back, he’d look like an even bigger idiot, so he stayed where he was. The driver only gave him a side glance before pulling away from the curb. He did luck out in that the guy was quiet, didn’t try to chat them up, which was the type of driver Simmons preferred. It gave him the freedom to pull out his phone and furiously text Grif.

[ _I fucking hate you._ ]

He heard the bitten-off noise that was Grif stifling a snicker. Almost immediately Simmons’ phone buzzed in his hand.

[ _i didnt tell u 2 get in the front_ ]

Simmons didn’t even get to respond before he got another text.

[ _lol shotgun_ ]

This was accompanied by an emoji of a gun. Simmons very much wanted to chuck his phone at Grif’s head. Instead, he typed,

[ _First two rounds of drinks are on you. Think of it as your wedding present to me._ ]

He glanced into the rearview mirror after he pressed send, saw the way Grif’s eyebrows slowly scrunched together when he read it.

[ _then wheres mine_ ]

[ _Your present was me agreeing to even leave with you in the first place._ ]

[ _y do i always have 2 pay ugh_ ]

[ _Your mother is a billionaire, what does it matter?_ ]

[ _its the principal!!!_ ]

[ _I think you mean ‘principle’._ ]

By this time they’d pulled up outside of the bar, and Simmons awkwardly thanked the driver as he got out. The bar, boasting a neon sign that blinked _Rat’s Nest_ at them in a sickly green, was pretty much everything he had expected from a place Grif suggested. It looked rundown, and dirty, and probably filled with bikers who would beat him up the moment he entered. Rather than focus on that, Simmons turned to Grif.

“Did you fail second grade spelling?” he sneered. “I’ve seen elementary school kids who could understand the difference between ‘principal’ and ‘principle’.”

He wasn’t prepared for the hard look Grif shot him, or how Grif said, “You’re always such a fucking shithead. English is my second language, _Dick._ ”

Oh. Right. Simmons swallowed. “I--”

“Come on already, I wanna get drunk.”

Simmons followed obediently, shamed into it by how deeply he’d shoved his foot down his own throat. He _knew_ that Grif was ESL, had known since they were kids, and yet. His fists clenched at his sides as they walked into the bar. Time to stick to the original plan: get completely fucking wasted, and not remember anything about today, or how many times he’d screwed up already.

Inside, the bar was actually pretty empty, which made Simmons feel a bit better about the bar fight thing, even if the place still managed to feel extremely cramped despite the lack of people. It was dimly lit, with wood paneling and wooden floors and a wooden counter and if Simmons didn’t know any better he’d feel like he was stepping into one of those ancient Westerns he sometimes watched. Grif led them to the bar and didn’t say a word when Simmons sat on the stool next to his.

He stared at the wood grain before him, scraping at the countertop with a fingernail. Quietly, he said, “Listen, Grif, I’m. I’m sorry--”

Grif cut him off with a long-suffering groan. “Shut up, dude. I’m buying us our drinks. Don’t make it weird.”

The first drinks that Grif ordered them turned out to be tequila shots, and Simmons realized his error in letting Grif pay, because if he was paying it meant he was _choosing._ He wasn’t about to let Grif beat him, however, not when Grif smirked at him over the top of his shot glass, tongue flicking out to lick some salt from the rim and Simmons pounded his first because if he watched Grif do that for another second he might actually lose it.

The second round turned out to be...more tequila shots. Simmons narrowed his eyes at Grif, who was trying to look innocent. It didn’t work; his lip kept quirking.

Simmons held his shot glass up, toward Grif, and said, “To our future together.”

The amusement in Grif’s eyes died. The smirk remained, plastered on his face, as Grif clinked his glass against Simmons’. “Sure,” he said. “Why not.”

They drank those shots together. Simmons felt the warmth of alcohol spreading through his body, and oh yes, these drinks were not at all watered down the way the reception’s martinis had been. His heritage, his size, they only got him so far, since he didn’t, in all honesty, drink that much. Sometimes at parties, sometimes on the weekend, and that was all. He didn’t want to follow certain family trends. And he also hadn't eaten much that day, just some snacks at the reception, too nervous that morning for breakfast. Which meant that drinking more than this would make him severely impaired, in the long run. He should ask for water.

The next round was on him. He ordered two more shots of tequila.

He did order water, sometime after that. And food. Unfortunately, he was too drunk by then to realize that the food he ordered was consumed mostly by Grif, leaving him to snack on the remains. As the night wore on, the more intoxicated he became, and the more open he was to conversation.

“It’s so,” Simmons said, wielding a sprig of celery from their plate of buffalo wings, an hour or two after they’d arrived. He hadn’t touched the wings themselves, and Grif hadn’t touched the celery, which meant, for once, they were in perfect balance. “So fucking _pointless_ . The wedding was just, just like, just an _excuse_ . We could’ve been married in a back alley for all it mattered, Senior just wanted to get all of his contacts together to talk _business_ \--”

“Senior?” Grif asked, and Simmons blinked.

“Senior...my dad. Father. Um. You know.” More celery waving. “Him.”

“Uh-huh.”

“We have the same name,” Simmons explained. “Or, well. Same first name, and last name. But our middle names are different, so I’m not a junior, technically, but--”

“Don’t need the life story here, dude, think I got it.”

Simmons huffed. “Can’t you ever be serious?”

“Nope,” Grif said, then dunked his latest chicken wing in the second cup of bleu cheese Simmons had been reserving for his celery.

“Hey! What are you--there’s meat in my dip, now! You have your own!”

“I ran out,” Grif said, tearing off the top hunk of chicken from the drumstick in his hand. Still chewing, he added, thickly, “You’d know if I put my meat in your dip.”

Simmons flushed all the way up to his hairline, and spent the next ten minutes pointedly crunching on celery.

Another hour or so later, and the world was fuzzy around him. He’d had more water...maybe. Probably. He’d definitely had some beer. Or a cider? Something. It had been fizzy and brownish, that was all he knew.

Should’ve eaten more celery.

“ _Simmons_.” A voice he knew, right by his ear. Simmons tilted his head, the room spinning around him, and met Grif’s eyes. They were such a beautiful brown.

“If you throw up on me,” Grif was saying, “I’ll kill you.”

“‘M nah gonna puke,” Simmons slurred. He felt Grif’s shoulder, beneath his cheek, shift as Grif sighed.

He didn’t pay much attention after that, very content to lean on Grif, enjoying his warmth. At least until he was pulled bodily off of his stool and he yelped.

“Wha--What’re you--”

“We’re going back,” Grif said firmly. The tight grip around his waist had him sobering somewhat, and he bristled, trying to pull away.

“I can walk fine on my own--”

“You really can’t.” Grif was keeping him close, grimacing all the while as if dragging Simmons along was physically painful. “You’re a goddamn giant, how is it that three shots and a cider put you down like this.”

“I’m not that drunk!” Simmons insisted, even if he couldn’t find it in himself to pull away from Grif. He concentrated on standing straighter, at least, so he wasn’t draped all over his…all over Grif, and felt confident that he was definitely not looking like someone drunk off their ass being hauled away to sleep it off.

Grif didn’t say anything, because the Uber was already there, somehow, and Simmons marveled at how fast these people could show up while Grif shoved him into the back seat and then slid in beside him.

The ride back was a blur. Probably because Simmons spent most of it with his head resting on Grif’s shoulder again, immune to how tense Grif was beneath the contact. Didn’t matter, Grif’s shoulder was comfortable and smelled good and he could just sleep here for a while, thanks.

He didn’t get the chance. He vaguely felt the car coming to a halt, and then he was being hauled out of it, Grif’s fingers wrapped around his wrist, dragging him onward. Out of the car, into the mansion, through the empty front hall, up the stairs, to a spare bedroom with a king-sized bed. It was there he was deposited, and he didn’t protest as he sank onto the soft mattress and silken pillows.

“Fuck you for making me do this,” Grif said, somewhere above him. He saw that something had been pushed up beside the bed on the side he was lying on, and then he felt the shift of the mattress as Grif began to lie down on the other side. He didn’t move, too content with his sprawl, but knowing Grif was there made him smile against the pillow beneath his head. He was so drunk. He fell asleep almost immediately.

\- - -

Grif was a heavy sleeper. He didn’t move in his sleep, staying on his own half of the bed.

That was very convenient when Simmons woke in the middle of the night, leaned down to grab for the small garbage can Grif had provided him, and puked up everything that remained in his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is probably not how businesses work but shhhh it's my goofy romcom.
> 
> also here is the ACTUAL arranged marriage part. don't mind me uploading at 5am I've been sitting on this for a few days.
> 
> find me on tumblr at blackgoliath bc this is my Brand, and pillowfort at bulkhead
> 
> also: check out [this super awesome art ](https://venochu.tumblr.com/post/181830521473/this-worked-pretty-well-for-a-while-until-a-very) from chapter one!


	3. So Unhappy Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dude, you look like an angry housewife.”
> 
> “Well maybe I am one!” Simmons shrilled. He stopped, realizing how he sounded, and hissed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well I was going to sit on this for another few days but eh. why not put it up
> 
> today's theme: Simmons is not having a good time

Simmons was very lucky. He could have remembered how he’d spent the latter half of his wedding day sprawled against his husband (who he was pretty sure didn’t like him at all), how he’d needed to be escorted home, how they’d shared a bed because Grif probably thought he was going to die of alcohol poisoning. He could have remembered those things, and he didn’t.

He did, unfortunately, remember the next morning, when he woke with a blinding headache and the smell of bile in his nose. It was enough to have him dry heaving, and there was this convenient waste basket beside the bed that he could just shove his face in for a bit.

When he was done, he heard a groan behind him, and he stiffened.

“Go back to sleep,” Grif grumbled. It was muffled enough that Simmons could surmise Grif was facing the other way, though he was suddenly, inescapably aware of the heat of another body behind him. “You’re going to need it, you fucking lightweight.”

“Can you get me some water?” Simmons’ voice was gravelly and his everything hurt.

“Get it your own damn self.” He felt the mattress shift as Grif scooched further away from Simmons and _god fucking damnit._

It took a lot of effort to get up out of the bed, to drag himself to the attached bathroom. He managed to fill a paper cup with water, managed to dig through the drawers to find some painkillers. He swallowed those. He drank the cup of water. He filled it and drank another. And another. And, after several cups, after peeing, he returned to the bed, and sprawled onto it, his feet hanging off the edge, and he slept.

When he woke up next, there was a soft rapping in his ears, and he wondered if he needed more painkillers. Then he realized it was the sound of someone knocking on the door.

He thought he heard Grif’s voice, a low grumble that might have been words and might have been nothing. He stiffened when, instead of answering the door, he felt Grif roll over behind him and--

\--put an arm around Simmons, burying his face into the back of Simmons’ neck.

“Unclench, dickweed,” he heard Grif mumble into his skin. “They’re supposed to think we fucked, remember?”

Oh. Their excuse for ditching the reception after the dance. Simmons relaxed a tiny amount, though it was impossible to ‘unclench’ fully when he could feel Grif’s soft warmth against his back. Let Grif think it was him being uptight; better than him knowing the truth.

Whoever it was, probably thinking the room was empty, opened the door. He heard a sharp gasp, a soft apology, and then the door was closing again. As soon as the intruder - likely a servant of some kind - was gone, Grif rolled away from Simmons, and Simmons took what was probably his first breath in five minutes.

“What time is it?” he asked, carefully pushing himself up. His headache was better, though he was still dehydrated. He’d have to see if the Gri--if Ailani kept electrolyte water in the house.

“Who cares. I’m going back to bed.”

Having expected such an answer, Simmons checked his phone, which was still in the pocket of his jeans. He’d been so drunk he fell asleep in his clothes. There were a few missed calls from his father last night that he ignored; the servant’s gossip would answer those questions for him. He nearly jumped up when he saw the time, though.

“It’s almost one o’clock in the afternoon!”

“Great.” He heard Grif yawn. “Thanks for the update.”

Simmons wrinkled his nose with disgust, glanced down and saw the trash can again, and wrinkled it further. He’d have to take care of that.

“You can’t lie around in bed _all_ _day_.”

“I sure can. It’s our honeymoon, isn’t it?”

Simmons was already tying up the garbage bag in the little wastebasket, trying not to get too close in case the smell triggered his nausea again. “You have to eat at some point, and I know you’re not one to ever skip a meal.”

He stood, offending trashbag held at arm’s length, so he could see when Grif rolled onto his back and grinned up at him.

“You could bring me breakfast in bed, honey,” Grif cooed. Simmons rolled his eyes.

“I’ll be back, and you better be up by the time I am,” Simmons said, starting to leave the room, knowing full well Grif wouldn’t be. As he opened the door, he called over his shoulder, “And we’re not even _g_ _etting_ a honeymoon!”

\- - -

His father didn’t reprimand him, not really. By the time Simmons saw him, the household staff rumor mill had churned quite nicely. The only thing Simmons Sr. said was that Simmons could have at least stayed a bit longer at the reception. At the very least, Simmons seemed to be taking this new marriage seriously. Something could be said for that.

As for their honeymoon - both Simmons and Grif were right, in a sense. It _was_ their honeymoon, but at the same time, it really wasn’t. No one had bothered to organize one for them in the preparations for the wedding, because Grif wouldn’t do anything if they went anywhere and Simmons didn’t want to miss that much work. So instead, they used the week they could have been off in the Bahamas or something moving into the house Simmons’ father had provided them.

It wasn’t very large, one story, two bedrooms, one bath, with a study because that was the one thing Simmons had insisted on. Obviously their parents had planned for the master bedroom to be shared, and the extra bedroom to be for guests, but they both immediately agreed they were _not_ going to be sharing a room.

Grif got the master bedroom only because he laid down in the middle of the floor and refused to move until Simmons agreed to let him have it.

They were living in Blood Gulch, where his father’s mansion stood, but in a neighborhood much removed from that of the richest citizens. It wasn’t a _bad_ neighborhood, still comfortably middle class, yet the message, to Simmons’ mind, was clear: you don’t deserve to live where I live yet. You have to work for that.

Grif didn’t seem to mind, except for the fact that they wouldn’t have servants.

“Not even one?” he complained, sitting at the breakfast table while Simmons hauled in a box of pots and pans. “Just to do the household chores and shit?”

“Not even one. We can’t afford one, and where do you think they’d even _sleep_?”

“I dunno, on the couch?”

Simmons puffed out an irritated breath. “Not happening.”

“Why not?” Grif whined. “Can’t we at least hire one of those cleaning ladies who comes during the day?”

“ _No._ Even if we had the money, I wouldn’t. I don’t want a stranger rifling through my things, for one, and you need to learn to do your own chores anyway.”

“Come onnnn, Simmons! Didn't you have servants at your place?”

Simmons bent to start putting away the pots in one of the cupboards he'd designated for the purpose. He contemplated printing out labels for organizational purposes. “We did, but they weren't allowed to help me. I had to do my own chores.”

He heard Grif huff. “That's fucking stupid.”

\- - -

Between Grif’s laziness and Simmons’ work - Carolina refused to let him come in, but she'd begrudgingly agreed he could do some work from home - it took them almost the entire week to get everything moved in and unpacked. When they were done, Simmons surveyed the clean and orderly living room with pride. This space was his. His home, and, despite the fact that his father had bought it, it was in Simmons’ name. It was completely, totally _his._

Except that it wasn't.

Grif sprawled on their new couch, putting his bare feet up on the living room table. He already had an open package of Oreos in his hands.

“No eating outside the kitchen!” Simmons insisted, hands falling to his hips. “And at least wear some slippers!”

“Only mainlanders wear shoes in the house.” Grif didn't move, instead shoving a cookie into his mouth.

“The floor could be dirty!”

“We _just moved in._ ”

“So!” Grif did have a point, though, so Simmons let that one drop. “You're still getting crumbs all over the new furniture!”

“My house, my couch, my crumbs.” Grif chewed slowly, tauntingly. Simmons felt his blood pressure rising, and Grif only made it worse by twisting just enough to look at him, then snorting.

“Dude, you look like an angry housewife.”

“Well maybe I am one!” Simmons shrilled. He stopped, realizing how he sounded, and hissed. “Whatever, I'm glad I bought that furniture roomba, I knew I was going to need it.”

As he stormed out of the room, Grif called after him, “We can't have a cleaning lady but you got a shitty vacuum droid?”

\- - -

Living with Grif, Simmons learned, was even worse than he’d thought it would be. It was more like living in his own personal level of hell, with a demon selected to torture him in the most effective ways possible.

It would have been one thing if Grif kept his mess to his own room, which, in the moments Simmons caught sight of it through the partially opened door, made him shudder in horror. But no, Grif had clothes and wrappers and dishes and empty soda cans strewn all over the living room and kitchen, too. He had a TV in his room but he preferred watching out in their public space where he could get crumbs all over the couch while Simmons watched, seething, from the kitchen.

No amount of berating would get Grif to clean up after himself, so Simmons always had to do it. And it was exhausting. He worked full-time - so did Grif, supposedly - and would come home to trash everywhere, which he then had to clean before he could even focus on making dinner. Yelling at Grif about it only seemed to make the mess worse, and so he gave up on that front.

Something in him, despite all this, still felt good when he’d hear Grif come through the front door. Something in him still liked those moments where they actually kind of got along, usually when Simmons had cooked Grif something and he almost sounded grateful, even if Simmons was not a master chef in the slightest, or when their bickering slid more toward banter. The domesticity of it felt nice, and warm, and like home.

Simmons mercilessly smothered those feelings.

It all came to a head when, one morning, he walked into the bathroom to see Grif _using his toothbrush_ . His! Toothbrush! Meticulously chosen, electronic, with a new brush head that was automatically sent every three months per dentist recommendation! And Grif was using it! And using it _poorly_ , Simmons could see that much from where he was frozen in the doorway. For all the effort Grif didn’t put into anything, he brushed his teeth like he was trying to grind them into a fine powder, and Simmons _knew_ that his toothbrush’s bristles would be ruined far earlier than they should be, and he still had a month and a half until the replacement arrived.

Simmons didn’t say anything. He turned on his heel and marched back to his room, and there began planning his revenge.

He took a sick day, later, which was a massive sacrifice on his part, since he had never, in his entire time of working for his father’s company, taken a day off. Carolina hadn’t even hesitated to say yes when he called in, probably for that reason. He stayed in his bedroom that morning until he heard Grif leave - Grif’s schedule was slightly different, skewed an hour behind Simmons’ - and then he made his move.

He knew that Grif would be at the office all day. He had plenty of time to work with.

The night before, Simmons had bought an extra box of garbage bags. Donning a dust mask and rubber gloves, carrying the box and dragging the vacuum behind him, he barged into the master bedroom.

What he saw nearly had him walking right back out.

There was mess _everywhere_. If Grif left things lying around the living room, his bedroom was twice as bad, especially as it included all of the dirty laundry he refused to put into the hamper Simmons had gotten for him. The only empty space he saw was Grif’s bed, though it was in complete disarray. Simmons was a little surprised to find Grif wasn’t sleeping in a nest of his own filth, but he supposed that it fit the old saying: even a stopped clock would strike true twice a day.

He got to work. Clothing was gathered and tossed into the hamper, ready to be thrown into the washing machine later; wrappers, cans, and bottles were deposited into the garbage bags, separated by recyclables; dishes were brought to the kitchen, left in the sink to be washed while the laundry ran. After an hour’s work, the room was almost beginning to look respectable - he could actually see the floor - and then he noticed something odd about the mattress. It seemed to hump up slightly on one side. Frowning, wondering if he needed to buy Grif a new mattress, Simmons investigated. He gasped like the heroine of a horror film when the lump proved to be created by a stash of junk food boxes.

He found stashes all over the room, in drawers, in the closet, behind the TV. Oreos and Doritos and Betty Crocker, greasy, sugary, fattening snacks. Everything he found went into its own trash bag; he’d donate them to the local homeless shelter or something. Even now he couldn’t find it in himself to waste food.

The chia pet he found under Grif’s bed that turned out to be a _very moldy sandwich_ did go straight into the trash, however.

By the time he was done, when he’d cleaned and straightened and vacuumed and made Grif’s bed, the room looked immaculate. The latter task had taken him a little longer than necessary because Grif’s bed smelled so strongly of Grif he zoned out, letting the scent fill his senses, imagining Grif there with him, arm around him like the morning after their wedding--

\--Anyway. By the time he was done, the master bedroom was spotless. He left with Grif’s hamper of dirty clothes, put them in the washing machine, and then moved to the kitchen to finish off the dishes. After the dishes had been washed and put away, after Grif’s hamper of clean laundry was put back in his room (Simmons had done a lot but he refused to fold Grif’s underwear for him), after he’d driven down to the food bank and dropped off all those snacks, Simmons retreated to his study and started doing what work he could after having taken an entire day off.

He was engrossed enough that he didn’t hear Grif get home. He didn’t realize it was even late enough for that to occur until he heard a shout so loud it echoed throughout the house.

“ _SIMMONS!_ ”

Simmons had hardly looked up when Grif burst through the door to his study, eyes wild, fists clenched at his sides. It actually made Simmons sit back in his chair; he’d never seen Grif actually angry before.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Grif snarled, “did you do to my room?”

Simmons took a deep breath, steeled himself. He’d known this was coming, he could handle it. “I cleaned it,” he answered, evenly.

“Funny, I don’t remember asking you to.” Grif stepped closer, and Simmons, unintentionally, pushed his chair further back. “I don’t remember saying you could even go _into_ my room.”

“We were going to get ants--” Simmons stammered, the entire argument he’d carefully laid out disintegrating under the hard glint in Grif’s eyes. _My father bought this house,_ he’d been planning to say. _It’s in my name. That room is technically mine, and I can go into it whenever I want._ Instead, he watched as Grif came around the side of the desk and loomed over him as he tilted his chair back as far as it would go without falling over.

“Who cares! I didn’t even have anything in my room that would attract ants, anyway, so who gives you the fucking right to go into my space and fuck with my stuff! Isn’t that the _exact reason_ you said you didn’t want a cleaning lady!”

Grif had a point. Simmons didn’t like that Grif had a point. He sat up, letting his face get within inches of Grif’s. “Like hell you didn’t! I found a sandwich under your bed so covered in mold I thought it was a _plant!_ ”

The expression on Grif’s face changed, for an instant, to something almost like hurt. Simmons started to feel guilty until Grif asked, “You threw out Harold?”

“Harold?” A beat. “You--you _named it?!_ ”

“Of course I did! Harold was my best friend!”

“It was a _moldy sandwich!_ ”

“You just wouldn’t understand the depth of our relationship.” Grif put a hand over his heart, as if mourning a fallen comrade, and Simmons let out a very loud snort. It seemed to draw Grif back, because his expression hardened again.

“Whatever, dude. Like it or not, that’s _my_ room. And the next time you go in there and fuck with my stuff without my permission, I’m going to beat the shit out of you.” He paused, then asked, “What’d you do with my food?”

Simmons had slumped back into his chair by then, all the righteous energy gone. “Donated it,” he mumbled.

“...Well at least you didn’t throw it out.”

Simmons couldn’t look at Grif, stayed where he was until he heard the study door snap shut, leaving him alone again. He turned back to his computer to continue working, found his attention sliding off of the excel spreadsheet he had pulled up, and spent the rest of the night watching Spongebob until his brain went numb and he went to bed.

\- - -

Simmons was an idiot to think Grif wouldn’t find a way to get his own revenge.

They’d been living together, married, for a few months, and two weeks had passed since he’d cleaned out Grif’s room. He was pretty sure it had gone back to its original state not long after, but Grif didn’t bring it up again. He didn’t do anything, falling back into their usual routine of bickering and banter, even surprising Simmons one night by asking him if he wanted to watch some Battlestar Galactica together.

It had been a pleasant evening, Grif even sharing his popcorn. Simmons had almost felt like they could be...well. They’d never be what he really wanted, deep down. But maybe they could be friends.

He should’ve known it was all a ploy, a way to give him a false sense of security. Grif was a lazy fuck and barely put effort into anything, yet Simmons had come to learn that he could, when he felt petty enough, and he was, in some instances, shockingly patient.

It didn’t help that the day Grif implemented his plan was also one of the worst days Simmons had had in a long time. He’d woken up with a stiff neck, which later led to a headache. It was raining, and windy, and his umbrella upended itself halfway to his car. He threw its shattered remains into the backseat, shivering in his newly-soaked clothing. He turned the heat on, which helped some during the drive, only for him to get soaked all over again as he ran into the office building from the parking lot.

At work, as he settled into his cubicle, he found himself summoned to the boss’ office, where Carolina informed him, in her no-nonsense-yet-also-a-bit-concerned way, that he’d made an error in an important report.

She knew he could fix it; he always did better work than this. She’d give him until the end of the day. He should be careful not to let it happen again.

He was expecting the call as soon as he left her office, though his father waited until when he knew Simmons would be on lunch. Simmons Sr. kept his finger to the pulse of the company, even the lowest echelons, especially when it came to Simmons. He’d heard about the mistake, and he was extremely disappointed. Something like this was the work of amateurs, and Simmons was to be CEO some day. How did he expect to run a company when he couldn’t manage something as simple as a desk clerk’s job?

Simmons, of course, couldn’t say that he was exhausted, that he was running himself ragged between work and keeping his house clean. That he’d discovered, not long after Grif was transferred to this building following their wedding (albeit a different department), that Grif wasn’t doing _anything_ , wasn’t doing his job at all, and he’d hacked Grif’s work accounts so he could complete his paperwork for him. That the day he’d worked on the report in question he’d been so tired his memory of that twelve hours was a hazy blur.

Instead, he listened to his father, said, “Yes, sir,” where it was expected, and gave his uneaten salad to Donut.

By the time he got home it was still raining, and Simmons was starving and not hungry all at once. He’d thrown his umbrella in the trash after work, didn’t feel like driving out to get a new one, so he let the rain soak him to his core as he unlocked the front door and stepped into the house.

At the front mat, he took off his shoes and slipped his feet into his soft indoor slippers, a compromise he’d quietly come up with for Grif’s dislike of wearing shoes inside. It was when he was hanging up his coat that he noticed the first footprint, outlined clearly in dried mud on their carpet.

He knew where the path would lead. He followed anyway, as if in a trance, his own wet clothes dripping onto the floor, but what did it matter when he was going to have to steam clean to get these muddy tracks out of the carpet. The door to his study was closed, and he saw how half of a footprint disappeared beneath it. He shouldn’t go in; it was exactly what Grif wanted. He went in anyway.

Grif’s muddy boots were set haphazardly near the bookshelf, while Grif himself reclined in Simmons’ desk chair. His feet - his _bare feet_ \- were up on the desk. He was smirking as he ate from a bag of cheetos, and Simmons didn’t even need to look to know that his desktop keyboard was probably covered in cheeto dust.

“Welcome home, babe,” Grif said.

Simmons stared at him for a long moment. He took in the boots, the feet, the cheetos, and Grif’s shit-eating grin. He was so tired.

“You’re getting germs on my desk,” he said, dully.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I just wanted to see what you did in here all the time, so I thought I’d come hang out.” Grif tilted his head, hair flowing over his shoulder. “Since we’re all about sharing spaces now.”

There was anger, because of course there was anger. Grif was in his inner sanctum. Grif had purposefully tracked mud through the house, was probably getting athlete’s foot all over his desk (he’d need to break out the disinfectant) and the cheeto dust would take forever to get out from between the keys of his keyboard. Yet the anger wasn’t enough to rouse him from the fugue state he was in. He felt wrung dry, his rage a tiny hammer chipping away at the numbness.

So he said, “Okay,” and walked away.

He went into the kitchen, ignoring the calls of, “Simmons? Hey, Simmons!” He stopped in front of the cupboards, stared at them. He’d been thinking about making coffee. His gaze fell to the oven clock, saw what time it was. Too late for coffee. He should eat something instead.

He was standing in front of the open fridge when Grif appeared, brows furrowed. If Simmons didn’t know better, he’d almost think Grif looked worried.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Grif asked, without the usual bite, and okay, maybe he _was_ worried.

“Nothing,” Simmons said, closing the fridge. Instead, he opened the freezer, and Grif’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hair when Simmons pulled out the gallon of chocolate ice cream Grif had yet to finish. He was still speechless when Simmons grabbed a spoon out of the silverware drawer, sat himself down at the kitchen table, and began to eat.

Eventually, Grif found his voice. “Okay, either we got divorced and I didn’t know it, or somebody died.” He came around the table, taking the chair next to Simmons and turning it to face him better. Simmons ignored him, and kept shoveling ice cream into his face. They didn’t have any liquor so this would have to do - no. Don't think like that. He couldn't become his mother.

“Or, wait, are _you_ dying? Should I call someone? I don’t know how to do CPR, man, I’m not certified, and I’d rather drag your drunken ass home than deal with you _dying_ \--”

“Grif,” Simmons interrupted, and Grif stopped talking.  

Simmons opened his mouth to continue, then closed it. He didn’t know what to say. _I’ve had the shittiest day ever and coming home to this makes me want to kill myself?_ No, obviously not. He’d started this, anyway, by going into Grif’s room without his permission. Of course Grif would retaliate.

So, staring down into the ice cream carton, Simmons mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

“You’re...what?”

“I’m sorry,” Simmons said, louder this time. “For. For cleaning your room. I shouldn’t have done that.” Grif didn’t say anything, and Simmons kept going, the words pouring out of him, a geyser unblocked. “I shouldn’t have gone in without your permission. It’s just, you piss me off _so much_ sometimes, you never clean up after yourself, I feel like you’re doing it to spite me and I. I’m not the fucking maid. You want to be a slob because it’s your house? Fine. Whatever. But you need to fucking remember that it’s my house too, and I get that our parents made us get married but it’s not my fucking _job_ to wipe your ass like one of your mother’s servants--”

“Whoa, hey, calm down.” Simmons looked up, then, and the expression on Grif’s face almost seemed...fearful. That couldn’t be right. The only thing Grif was afraid of was work. “Jesus, okay, I’ll pick up my shit. Just, just stop doing--this. Whatever this is. You’re freaking me the fuck out.”

Simmons stuck his spoon into the remaining ice cream, then let his face sink into his hands. He expected Grif to leave. He didn’t expect to feel the hesitant brush of fingers against his arm.

“Seriously,” Grif said, more quietly. “Are you okay?”

Simmons didn’t say anything, at first. Then he inhaled deeply, let it out on a slow exhale, and replied, “I just had a long day.”

“Seems like it.”

The silence hung between them for several long moments, until Grif said, “You wanna watch some Star Trek?”

Simmons raised his head and gave Grif a bemused stare. Grif was trying to look bored, as he usually did, except that worry kept leaking through.

“Yeah,” Simmons said, slowly. “Let’s do that.”

“Sweet. Also, I get the rest of that ice cream.”

Something heavy lifted off of Simmons’ shoulders. “Fine, but only if you clean up the mud you tracked in. I’m going to pick up a steam cleaner tomorrow.”

Grif groaned all the way into the living room, but otherwise accepted his fate. And when Simmons shifted a little closer, selfishly taking comfort in Grif’s proximity, Grif didn’t say anything about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me at blackgoliath on tumblr and bulkhead on pillowfort 
> 
> also: check out [this super awesome art ](https://venochu.tumblr.com/post/181830521473/this-worked-pretty-well-for-a-while-until-a-very) from chapter one!


	4. Drunk Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So maybe Grif didn't hate him, exactly. But that didn't mean he liked him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is from Grif's POV! there's going to be a few of those, so look out for that in the future. 
> 
> also, I am terrible with languages, so I cheated. forgive me
> 
> today's theme: can't catch me gay thoughts

Grif had hated Richard Simmons since he was eight years old.

The kid had looked like a tiny giraffe and his entire appearance made Grif want to shove his head in a toilet, but that would be effort, and effort was what servants were for. Simmons always sneered at what Grif ate, and beat him at Mario Kart even though he was two years younger, and then would explain in his stupid voice the physics of _why_ he had won and Grif wanted to strangle him.

He'd copy Grif's cursing when their parents were in the other room and then flush all the way to his hair, as if he couldn't believe he'd done that, and Grif would smirk and Simmons would end up grinning back and he looked a little less punchable when he smiled.

So maybe Grif didn't _hate_ him, exactly. But that didn't mean he liked him.

When Kai started coming around too it wasn't as bad, though Simmons was weird about it sometimes, probably because he thought she had cooties. Then they moved, and his mother was never home and Grif basically had to raise Kai himself because that was one thing he _didn’t_ trust the servants to do right, and sometimes Simmons would text him and maybe Grif would’ve texted back but he was always so busy with Kai that by the time he did there was really no point. And they were terrible at holding conversations, anyway; Simmons clearly never knew what to say, and Grif certainly wasn’t going to put in the work to keep them talking.

Then years later came that party hosted by Simmons’ dad, and Grif had known he'd have to see Simmons again, but he hadn't been prepared for what he'd get when he did.

Simmons was _tall_ now. He'd grown into his giant puppy feet and now he was taller than Grif. He wasn't as skinny anymore, either, which meant he was proportional, and he wasn't wearing those ugly glasses so you could actually see how _green_ his eyes were and God damn fuck Grif was staring.

Grif distracted himself with his one true love, making a beeline for the buffet as he always did at these things. Easier to avoid talking to people if his mouth was full.

He stayed there for a while until he inevitably drifted Simmons’ way, greeting him with a “This party fucking sucks.”

He saw Simmons startle, saw how his grip tightened on his glass (his hands were proportional now, too, narrow in the palm with long, tapered fingers, and who the _fuck_ said this asshole could have such nice hands).

Grif hadn't expected Simmons to agree to ditching the party with him. Simmons had always been a rule-following kiss-ass, which meant he was pleasantly surprised when Simmons said yes.

He wasn't surprised when Simmons froze up in front of the waitress at the diner - the guy practically radiated “girls terrify me”. And he wasn't surprised when they got back and Simmons’ father immediately started tearing Simmons apart in that calm, disappointed way of his.

Grif had glanced back, and the look on Simmons’ face as they walked away kept him up most of the night, until he gave in and texted the guy.

[ _Yes I'm fine,_ ] Simmons had said. [ _And I'm going back to sleep. Leave me alone._ ]

Grif scowled at his phone. Of course Simmons was being difficult.

[ _w/e dude_ ]

He didn't get a response, and he hadn't expected one. He shut his phone off so nothing would wake him up, then rolled over and worked on passing out.

\- - -

Grif should have known he'd never truly get away from Simmons, with how their families were connected. He'd never suspected marriage, though, never suspected his life would reach this new level of shit. He should've. If it could get worse, it would.

The wedding had been such a fucking sham, and he'd thought, when he convinced Simmons to leave, that they could at least get drunk and it wouldn't be weird, but then Simmons had gotten wasted and _snuggled_ him and what the fuck. Why was his life like this. Why did he have to be married to a shithead that would then turn around and get drunk and rest his head on Grif’s shoulder and look so goddamn cute about it.

He certainly hadn't looked at Grif like that since. Whatever it was that had possessed Simmons to do that on their wedding day had completely disappeared, leaving an uptight asshole in its wake. If it could get worse, it would.

And there was honestly nothing worse than being married to Richard Simmons.

“We KNOW,” Tucker groaned, tilting back in his chair. “You tell us EVERY FUCKING DAY.”

“Is he talking about Simmons again?” Church asked, from over by the coffee maker. “Because if he is I'm going to shove him out of the nearest window.”

They were gathered in the breakroom, which had become a lot more comfortable since Grif started working in this department. Mostly because he’d send texts to his mom about how shitty it was and she’d send the orders down through their department head to use company funds on making things nicer. Washington always had a tightness to his jaw when he carried these things through, but he couldn’t say no to the co-CEO. With every soft chair, couch, and vending machine added, Grif felt more and more at home.

Even if his coworkers were jerks who couldn’t understand the trying times he was going through right now.

“I don't tell you every day!” Grif lied. He had his feet up on an empty chair while he sipped at a Coke. “I didn’t even tell you about the time he went into my room and _cleaned_ it.”

“Yeah, you did, about eighty fucking times,” Church said. “And if your cubicle looks anything like your room does, then I still say he did you a favor.”

“Nah, dude, that’s my _space_. He can’t just come in and fuck with it.” Grif took a longer drag from his Coke can, set it down next to the extremely greasy burger he’d gotten for lunch. “Especially with how he treats that study. I swear he’d sleep in there instead of his own room if he could fit in a bed.”

Tucker sat up, leaning on the table now, forearms folded in front of him. “So, your plan to fuck with the study, how’d that go?” he asked. “Did he freak out? You said you’d record it if he started crying.”

Grift shifted in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable. He remembered that night, two days prior. How dead-eyed Simmons had been. How he’d barely reacted at all. How quiet he’d stayed, while they watched Star Trek.

“He didn’t freak out.” Grif huffed, picked up his burger, didn’t take a bite. “He was all...weird. He barely said anything about it.”

“Really?” Grif turned to see Tucker’s disappointment. “I was looking forward to spending my afternoon watching that.”

“Yeah, really. He made me clean up the mud, which is just like him--”

“--you _were_ the one who tracked it into the house--”

“--but besides that he was just. Weird. I don’t know, it freaked me out. Simmons has a stick shoved so far up his ass he should be a scarecrow, but that night was. Different.”

“Maybe you should’ve kissed it better,” Tucker suggested, waggling his eyebrows. “Bow chicka wow wow~” Grif picked up a piece of soggy shredded lettuce that had fallen off his burger and threw it at him. Tucker dodged easily.

“That’s not happening.”

“They say hatesex is the hottest kind, and if you’re already married, then what’s the harm?”

“I don’t know,” Grif drawled, “What’s the harm in you fucking Wa--”

Tucker cut him off with a sharp look while Church snorted in the background, and it was then that he heard someone clear their throat behind him. With practiced, bored slowness, Grif looked up to see Washington standing in the doorway to the breakroom. He wondered how long Wash had been there.

“Dexter,” Wash said, and Grif tried not to grimace. “When you’re done with your lunch, I’d like to see you in my office.”

Grif ate quickly, as he always did, a habit borne of not knowing when his mother would declare dinner over and his half-eaten plate would be whisked away from him. This tendency helped with the fact that he needed to get away from Tucker as quickly as possible, as Tucker was fluctuating between telling him that he totally, _absolutely_ did not want to fuck their boss, thanks, and asking what the fuck did Grif do to get into trouble, were they actually going to get on him at last for not doing any work, try not to get fired because while he _definitely_ didn’t think Wash was hot he was a good boss and if Grif’s mom fired him because Grif got himself fired Tucker wouldn’t forgive Grif--

At least Church was quiet, for once. Though that was probably because Tex from security was out in the main office talking to Caboose, and Church never wasted an opportunity to stare at her.

Grif finished his burger, dumped all of his trash into the trashcan without bothering to worry about recycling, and left the two behind as he made his way to Wash’s office.

Wash was sitting at his desk when Grif came in, gesturing at the chair across from him once he saw who it was. Grif flopped into it, purposefully arranging himself in a careless sprawl.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, voice flat and uninterested.

“I think,” Wash began, hands clasped in front of him, and Grif suddenly realized Wash felt very awkward, “I think you shouldn’t be so hard on Simmons.”

Grif blinked. “I get that you’re my boss and all, but is giving relationship advice really part of the job?”

Wash flushed in a way that reminded Grif uncomfortably of the subject of this conversation. “It isn’t,” Wash said, and his voice was even, despite the pink on his freckled cheeks. “And that’s not what I’m trying to do. Have you noticed how I’ve never called you in here, despite the fact that you don’t do any of the work you’re assigned?”

Was this what Wash was getting at? A weird way to go about it. “You don’t do it because you don’t want to piss off my mom,” Grif said, settling into his chair. “Doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out.” This was a familiar argument, one he always won, because what could they do?

Except Wash said, “You sit at your desk every day and you play games online. I see it. The whole office sees it. I’ve never witnessed you spend any time on the reports you’re given.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m wasting company time, I could do better, blah blah--”

“--Yet for the past two months your reports have appeared in my database, complete and on time.”

Grif stalled. That wasn’t how this was supposed to go. His ‘I don’t give a fuck’ look gave way to pure confusion, while Wash watched him in a way that made it clear he’d prepared for this reaction. _What?_

“He’s not as good at hacking as he probably thinks he is,” Wash continued. “I noticed fairly quickly that someone else was using your account. At first I thought to alert the higher ups to a breach, until I realized he wasn’t doing anything more than completing the paperwork you’ve ignored.”

Grif gave his boss a lopsided grin, hiding the way his heart was pounding. _There’s no way_. “Are you trying to punk me?”

“No. I’m telling you the facts. Your husband has been doing your work for you for the past two months.”

That night two days ago flashed again before Grif’s eyes, and so did the last few weeks. How tired Simmons looked. The bags under those green eyes. How Grif had been smug about it, because fuck Simmons, fuck him and his neat freak bullshit and telling Grif what to do--

“Uh. Okay.” Shit. He looked like a complete asshole. “...Thanks?”

“Don’t lean on him, Dexter.” Washington glanced away, and there was something unreadable in his face, something dark and deep that Grif did not even want to touch at all. “And don’t let him lean on you. That’s all I wanted to say.”

“Right. Cool. Good talk. Maybe next time use less mysterious anti-hero language?” Grif was up and out of his chair, already backing out of the room. “You should ask Tucker for instructions.”

Wash’s flush was back, and Grif caught a “I’m not--!” before Grif let the door close behind him and separate him from the fact that his boss had just given him advice for dealing with his own husband.

On second thought, Grif wasn't sure it was even advice. What the hell. He sat back down at his desk and stared at his computer’s home screen for a solid five minutes.

_Your husband has been doing your work for you for the past two months._

Why the fuck would Simmons do that? Simmons _hated_ him, that much was obvious. There may have been moments where Simmons almost looked happy to have Grif around, but Grif had chalked those up to his own imagination, because the rest of the time Simmons acted like he wanted to launch Grif into the sun. He'd almost think this had something to do with Simmons’ dad, but why would ‘Senior’ care about the work Grif did?

He was faced with a truth he didn't want: Simmons was helping him just to help him.

“Did you get in trouble?” Caboose asked, and Grif nearly jumped out of his skin.

“ _Caboose!_ ” Grif looked up from the computer screen he'd been staring at, and, sure enough, there stood Caboose at the opening of his cubicle, brown curls falling into his large brown doe eyes.

“I'm sorry you're in trouble,” Caboose continued, as if Grif hadn't just yelled. “Mr. Washington can be scary sometimes. Are you okay?”

Grif had the thought he usually did, which was _why the fuck was this guy hired_. He kept it to himself, as he usually did, to be asked of Tucker and Church later.

“Yeah, I'm fine. Don't you have work to do?”

Caboose’s eyes widened, and he said, “Oh, no!” and scrambled back to his own cubicle. Grif let out a breath, then turned back to his computer. He hesitantly opened his work account to see the latest report he'd been told to file.

It was already half done. Fuck. He wasn't being punked.

Gritting his teeth, Grif started on the rest of it, deciding he'd ask Simmons what the hell his game was later.

\- - -

He didn't get the chance.

“Dex!” his mother exclaimed, as soon as he walked through the door.

He immediately found himself trapped in a hug. He bent in order to return it better, wrapping his arms around her. She didn't let go for a while. His mother hugged like she needed it to breathe, like this simple gesture could make up for all of the time she'd been absent from his life.

Grif was used to it. He took the moment to observe the rest of the house, to see that Sarge and his son Lopez were here (ugh) and to see the adoring look on Simmons’ face as he shook hands with Sarge.

“It's so good to see you, sir!” Simmons was saying, and Grif felt a part of him die from contact embarrassment.

“(Your husband is creeping me out,)” Lopez said, in Spanish, and Grif pretended not to understand him. Lopez always spoke in Spanish, apparently assuming no one in the family could tell what he was saying. Grif would have responded to him in Hawaiian, except his mother had been very upset the one time he'd done that, so he had taken to acting ignorant. It was a lot easier than dealing with her asking why he was antagonizing his stepbrother.

“I hope you don't mind us stopping by,” his mother said. “But I wanted to see how you were doing--”

“It's fine, Mom.” And it was, actually. She didn’t usually take the time to bother with him if she didn’t have to, and he wondered, not for the first time, if Sarge really was having a positive effect on her after all. “How’re you?”

“I’m doing fine, sweetie. It’s so good to see you and Richard again. How are things between the two of you?”

Grif glanced up at Simmons, who was beaming at Sarge like he’d hung the moon. He heard Sarge saying, “You managed to keep Grif from making the place look like a sty; I can actually see the floor! Good work, Simmons.”

“Thank you, sir!” Simmons said, practically glowing. _Ugh_.

“We’re good. I’m gonna get a snack, do you want something?” He started moving without waiting for her response, knowing she’d follow him into the kitchen. That way he could stop watching Simmons kiss Sarge’s ass so thoroughly and wondering how long it would take to gouge his own eyes out with a fork.

As he predicted, Ailani followed him, sitting at the kitchen table while he rummaged through the cupboards for something to eat. He emerged with an unopened bag of Lays and came to sit beside her. He pulled the bag open, then sat there for a moment, basking in that just-opened-chips feeling. The bags always made such a beautiful sound when you first opened them.

“You know, I saw your sister last week,” Ailani said, while Grif stuffed a handful of chips into his face.

He chewed, swallowed. “Oh yeah? How’d you manage that?”

“I had some business to do in that sector and I thought I would stop by and see her.” Ailani glanced away, expression distant. “She wasn’t expecting me, so she didn’t have time to make herself scarce.”

“Huh. It’s rare to catch her off guard like that. Did you bring Sarge?”

Something in his tone had Ailani giving him a Look, and despite the fact that he was an adult and bigger than her now, it still cowed him. “No, I didn’t. After the last time, I thought it wasn’t wise. Sarge’s hair still hasn’t quite grown back right.”

Grif muffled his snort with another mouthful of chips. Kaikaina was a flaky bitch most of the time but god if he didn’t love her and the wacky shit she’d pull.

“You should invite her over,” his mother said. “Since she didn’t make it to the wedding, I’m sure she’d like to have a chance to see the two of you. Has she sent you anything, any congratulations at all?”

Grif tried to remember the last time he and Kai had spoken. She’d inherited her mother’s tendency to fuck off after whatever caught her interest without bothering to look back and see if her family was following, and it was usually too much trouble to try and track her down just to catch up, so most of the time, he didn’t.

“Not yet. And you know as well as I do that it doesn’t matter if I invite her, she’ll show up on her own when she feels like it.”

Ailani sighed. She shifted in her chair, leaning until she was resting against Grif’s side. “I hope she stops by soon, then.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

They heard a laugh from the living room - Simmons, pitched too high to be natural, and then Sarge saying something that got another fake laugh. Grif rolled his eyes.

He felt his mother’s gaze on him. “You should give him a chance,” she said quietly.

“Simmons? We’re married, I can’t give him more of a chance than that,” he quipped, then huffed out a breath when his mother just Looked at him again. It wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation, and repetition didn’t make it any easier.

“I don’t see why I should,” Grif said, instead, and tried not to sound like a brat. “He hates me.”

“He doesn’t. He’s just not very good at showing it.”

“He seems to do just fine with you and Lopez.” He could still hear the low hum of conversation in the next room, and scowled. “And Simmons.”

“I think he feels awkward. He’s never clicked with you or Kai.” Ailani was still leaning against him, and her arm curled around his, keeping him close. “When we were driving to your wedding, there were tears in his eyes. He didn’t want me to see but I did. I think he’s proud of you.”

Grif snorted loudly. “The last time I saw that man cry was when he broke his favorite shotgun, and I _still_ don’t know how he managed to do that.”

“He has his...creative moments. He was working on a new project.” Grif could hear the smile in his mother’s voice, and despite himself, he felt gratitude. It had been a long time since Grif had heard her sound so softly happy. “They don’t always succeed.”

It was then that Lopez poked his head into the kitchen, took in the scene before him, and said, “(You left me with your weird husband. I think he wants to kill me and take my place. I will never forgive you.)”

“(I don’t see how that’s my problem,)” Grif responded in Hawaiian before he could stop himself. His mother made a disappointed noise at his side and damnit now he felt guilty. Son of a bitch.

His punishment was dragging his ass back into the living room to socialize with Sarge and Simmons and Lopez, the bag of chips left in the kitchen because his mother _insisted_ he not talk with his mouth full, and she was the only person who could get him to comply with that. He thought of that bag, waiting on the counter, waiting for him, and the knowledge that he could eat the rest of it as soon as this was over got him through the rest of the visit. Whenever Sarge would insult him, or Simmons eagerly vied for Sarge’s attention, or Lopez said something dry and biting, Grif would think of those chips. Those crispy, salty, delicious chips.

After he’d kissed his mother’s cheek, endured Sarge’s “Hopefully see you never, dirtbag!”, after he’d ushered them out the door, Grif made a beeline for the kitchen.

The chips still waited for him, patient, faithful. He was halfway through the remainder when he realized he hadn’t seen where Simmons had gone, and also hadn’t yet confronted him about work.

Ugh. _Confrontation._ But he knew he had to do it, and so he left the safety of the kitchen once more.

His first instinct took him to the study. He brought the chips with him, a greasy shield against Simmons’ whining, even as he kept depleting said shield by the handful.

Simmons was, as expected, in the study, seated at his desk. He looked up when Grif came in, peering over the top of his glasses. How had he found time to take his contacts out in the few minutes it had taken Grif to grab these chips. How did those glasses, slimmer, more suited to his face than the ones he'd worn as a kid, make the way Simmons looked at him kind of hot. Like a sexy librarian in one of those pornos Grif would watch.

Time to run the fuck away from that train of thought.

“So,” Grif said, through a mouthful of chips. “Why’ve you been doing my paperwork.”

This didn’t seem to be what Simmons expected, because Grif saw how he stiffened, how a blush began at the tips of his ears and spread downward over his face.

“Wash told me today,” Grif continued, while Simmons remained silent. “Apparently you’ve been doing all my work for months? Like, what the fuck, dude.”

A long pause, and then-- “You weren’t doing it,” Simmons said.

“Well no shit. Why would I do work? My mom’s rich as sin, and if anybody tries to get on my ass about it, she’ll just fire them. I don’t see the point.”

“If you don’t do it,” Simmons replied, evenly, his gaze resting on something off to Grif’s left, “The company suffers, and your coworkers suffer. They have to pick up your slack. It isn’t just about you, Grif.”

His first instinct was to say that _obviously_ it was about him, what else would it be about, except. He saw it creeping over Simmons’ face, the way he was shutting down. He was going dead-eyed like he had the other day and Grif’s skin crawled at the idea of having to face that again, that fucking horrible emptiness that was so _sad_ to see he wanted to punch Simmons in the gut just to get a reaction out of him, something, anything that wasn’t _that look_ \--

“Okay, fine, geez, I’ll do my reports.” It may not have been a literal punch to the gut, but it worked the same, as Simmons’ head jerked up in surprise. “You don’t have to do them anymore, so you can stop being weird about it.”

“I’m not being weird about it,” Simmons said, defensive, and thank fucking Christ he sounded normal again. Grif would take snappy rude Simmons over blank and numb Simmons any day.

“Then keep doing that. I’m gonna take a nap.” He turned and walked out, focusing on finishing up the bag of chips as he ignored the way Simmons shouted, “It’s seven o’clock at night, napping now will ruin your sleep schedule!”

\- - -

There was a crack in the bathroom mirror the next morning. Grif hadn’t noticed it before. Had it always been there? That was possible; this house kind of sucked, after all, and Grif wasn’t the most observant on the best of days.

He thought of the night before, when he’d awoken briefly at the sound of a hard _smack_. He was such a heavy sleeper most of the time he’d assumed he was still dreaming, had rolled over and ignored it. Now, his fingers carefully traced over the jagged lines in the glass. It was only this small area that was cracked; the rest was fine.

He decided not to worry about it. The glass hadn’t fallen out of the mirror’s frame, so there wasn’t anything on the sink or floor he’d have to look out for. Sure, the mirror was scarred, but when had Grif ever cared about appearances?

\- - -

A week passed. Grif began doing his own reports, begrudgingly, painstakingly, each word accompanied by an exasperated groan. But he did them, and when he logged into his account every morning he no longer saw half-completed paperwork he’d never touched. It seemed Simmons had listened to him, for once, and could stop being so fucked up over doing both of their jobs.

So it was a bit of a surprise when he came home late one night after hanging out with Tucker after work and found Simmons slumped on the couch with a bottle of whiskey in his hand.

“Special occasion?” Grif asked, leaning on the back of the couch.

Simmons jolted, and it was only the long neck of the bottle that kept him from spilling anything onto the furniture.

“You--you're home!” Simmons squeaked, and Grif raised a brow.

“Well, yeah. I do kind of live here.”

“I thought you'd be--” Simmons stopped, shook his head. “Nevermind.”

Grif glanced at the bottle. It was a Friday night, which meant no work tomorrow, but it didn't mean he wanted to deal with Simmons upchucking all night. At least it didn't look like he'd drank much of it, maybe enough to constitute a shot. Grif mentally started a tally, then flopped onto the couch next to Simmons and grabbed the bottle.

“Wha--hey!”

“We both know you're a lightweight,” Grif said, taking a swig. Damn, it was good whiskey, too, with a burn that slid like liquid fire down his throat instead of settling in his sinuses like the smell of gasoline. Of course Simmons would splurge. “Can't let you get too fucked up, so I'll take this off your hands.”

“You just want free booze!” Simmons complained, and Grif grinned at him.

“I mean, that is a bonus.”

He did give the bottle back, though. Simmons grabbed for the remote, pulled up a movie on the TV. It was some B list sci fi flick neither of them really cared about, and for a while they sat in silence, passing the whiskey back and forth and pretending to pay attention to what was happening on the screen. Grif was surprised Simmons was sharing, but hey, he wasn't going to complain. They stayed that way through a good chunk of the movie until, having given Grif the bottle again (two and a half shots in, Grif’s mental tally informed him), Simmons said suddenly, “I really shouldn’t drink too much. That was why he made her stay away so often.”

Grif paused. “What?”

“My mother,” Simmons explained. He was leaning back against the couch, no longer watching the movie, his eyes focused on nothing. “He said she drank too much, that it was a disgrace. That's why she was never home; he wouldn't let her come back.”

Grif stared at him, then checked the bottle. No, it still had a good amount in it. Simmons hadn't sneaked in a few extra shots while Grif’s back was turned.

“You mean your dad,” Grif said, slowly, and Simmons nodded.

“He never liked it when things weren't how he wanted them,” Simmons continued, and the bitterness was so sharp in his voice Grif thought he could cut himself on it.

He was not even close to being drunk enough for this.

Grif took a long pull from the whiskey, coughing a little at how it scratched his throat, then said, “Sorry, I don't remember signing up for awkward family drama time. Last time I checked, I wasn't Donut.”

That pulled Simmons out of whatever the hell was going on in his head, as he turned to look at Grif, brows furrowed. “You know Donut?”

“Of course I know Donut.” Another swig. Strengthen me, oh liquid courage. “We work for the same company.”

“Well, yes, but you're in the south building, why would you ever--”

“Because he wanted to get to know his ‘best friend’s husband’,” Grif said, smirking at how Simmons flushed. “So he keeps showing up and talking to me. The guy’s like a ninja, I can never seem to shake him.”

“He's not my best friend,” Simmons snapped, then paused. “He does have an uncanny ability to find you when you don't want him to, though.”

“I don't know, he seemed pretty fond of you,” Grif teased. “Kept going on about how romantic it was that you had an arranged marriage, that even if we were practically strangers you were going to fall head over heels for me eventually. It's okay, Simmons, I understand, I'm quite the catch.”

Simmons was beet red, and Grif regretted not ribbing him about this sooner. At the time, the weird shit Donut was saying had made him _intensely_ uncomfortable, but throwing it back at Simmons and watching him fluster was totally worth going through that conversation.

“Donut is an idiot,” Simmons stammered, and Grif laughed, drinking more whiskey, enjoying the buzzing warmth that spread through him.

“Stop that!” Simmons snatched for the bottle, grabbing it and downing enough in one go that Grif’s mental tally couldn't keep up. Oh well. “I hate it when you laugh at me like that.”

“Why? Can't take a joke?” Grif asked, nudging him with an elbow. Simmons huffed.

“Of course I can take a joke, jackass! You just always look so stupidly hot when you do it, I hate it.”

“Oh, I'm soooo sorry,” Grif said, unthinking, his brain too fuzzy with whiskey to see the dangerous territory he was entering. “Like you can talk, with that sexy redhead thing you've got going.”

“The--the _what_ \--” Simmons spluttered, and he didn't look annoyed anymore, he looked _shocked_ . Why was that, it wasn't like Grif had said anything _that_ bad--

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, his drunken mind replayed what he'd just said. What Simmons had just said. Oh. Oh fuck.

“Do you really think that?” Simmons asked, achingly quiet and vulnerable in a way he'd never let himself be when he was sober.

_Fuck._

“Would I lie to you?” Grif said, his voice too high, too loud. Without waiting for an answer, he stood up. “You know what, I feel like shoving an entire pizza into my face. You in?”

For the second time the change in subject shifted things in his favor; Simmons made a face and said, “Only if you don't try to make a pizza burrito like last time.”

“Listen, rolling the whole thing up makes it easier to eat.”

“No! It doesn't! The _slices_ are what make it easy to eat!”

They bickered all through ordering, and once that was done, Simmons put on Fringe and they watched that for a while, and gradually Grif’s heart rate slowed. They ate their pizza while Simmons pointed out all the flaws in the show’s science and Grif reminded him that it was fucking _ancient_ and they didn't talk about what either of them said. That suited Grif just fine; if you didn't talk about things, it was like they never happened, and frankly that conversation had been enough of a roller coaster as it was.

When he glanced over some time later and saw that Simmons had fallen asleep, he picked up the pizza box and their plates, took them to the kitchen. Then he came back out and draped one of the spare blankets from the hall closet over Simmons.

He looked so much more peaceful when he was asleep, and younger, too. Why couldn't he look like this when he was awake? It was kinda nice.

Grif was uncomfortably reminded of his drunken comment. He left the living room, heading to his bedroom so he could pass out and hopefully not remember any of this in the morning, while knowing that, with his luck, he probably would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Simmons has a very unfortunate habit of getting drunk and talking about his dad. anyway, catch me on tumblr at blackgoliath, or pillowfort at bulkhead!
> 
> also: check out [this super awesome art ](https://venochu.tumblr.com/post/181830521473/this-worked-pretty-well-for-a-while-until-a-very) from chapter one!


	5. Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons drew what felt like his first breath since he'd gotten the call and said, “Use me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the real reason for modern-but-not setting? bc I needed cyborg!Simmons
> 
> also rip Grif
> 
> today's theme: they talked! kinda!

The universe can move in mysterious ways. In some realities, you might be a soldier in a war that's not real, and you might end up getting run over by a tank, and you might pull through because your best friend donated like half of himself to you and ended up a cyborg.

And then in other realities, you might be walking around your mother’s mansion on one of those rare times you're bothered to make the trip to visit her, and that new gaudy marble statue of some half-naked man your mother just bought is being pulled upright off the truckbed that brought it, but the handymen don't know there's a divet in the ground right there and you're walking past thinking the stupid thing is so ugly why did your mother buy it and then the momentum of the men's hoisting, the divet in the ground, have the statue falling to the other side, and you're standing there staring because _what the fuck_ and then it's on top of you and you can't even think about how fucking stupid this is since you're currently crushed and bleeding on the dirt.

Because it _was_ stupid. Somehow, you managed to get crushed by something even dumber than a tank driven by an idiot who couldn't find the brakes. But the universe didn't care, because the universe couldn’t care about anything, and no matter how stupid it was you were broken and you were dying and everyone was gonna remember you as the guy who got killed by a big marble statue with its dick half out.

What a way to go.

\- - -

Grif, Simmons was told, had been rushed to the hospital as soon as they managed to get the statue off of him. He'd been badly crushed ( _don't imagine it don't imagine it don't imagine it_ ) but they'd managed to stabilize him. The problem was that so much had been damaged that he needed several major transplants and unless they managed to find one donor for everything it would take time to get all of the donors prepared and while he was stable now he could easily decline rapidly in the next few hours--

Simmons drew what felt like his first breath since he'd gotten the call and said, “Use me.”

The room went silent. Or, well, hallway really -  they were all there, his father standing rimrod straight, face blank, by the wall, Sarge’s arm around Grif's mother as she sobbed into a tissue, the doctor, and Simmons. Simmons, who now had every eye on him. Even Mrs. Grif had looked up.

“Are you certain?” asked the doctor, and Simmons felt he'd never been more certain about anything in his life so he said, “Yes.”

“Richard.” His father’s voice; Simmons didn't look at him, couldn't. “You understand what you will be giving up? There is a significant amount of…’material’ you would be donating--”

“It's a brilliant idea!” Sarge bellowed so suddenly they all jumped. Simmons could look at _him_ , eyes wide, as Sarge added, “They could make you a cyborg! Always wanted a cyborg for a son.”

Simmons felt a rush of gratitude and affection so strong his knees went weak, and he had to wipe at his eyes.

The doctor watched him, then nodded slowly. “Alright, if you're sure, then come with me. There's paperwork you'll need to do, and then we have to prep you for surgery.”

Simmons didn't look back at his father as he followed the doctor, but he did look back at Sarge, who gave him a very exaggerated thumbs up. It buoyed Simmons’ spirit, helped calm the nerves already rising in his stomach at the idea of what he was about to do.

What he _had_ to do, because if he let Grif die here when there was something he could do about it he was pretty sure he would die, too.

\- - -

They were in the hospital for two weeks, and by the end of it Simmons was going a little stir crazy. He spent the first few days mostly asleep as his body acclimated and he was brought in for minor fixes and follow-up surgeries, but as soon as he was coherent and able to move he was calling Carolina and asking if she could have someone send him his work.

It had taken him as moment to actually work his phone, because it had been set on the table to his left and when he reached for it he got caught up in staring at his new left arm, sparkling silver underneath the hospital lights. It almost felt like his old arm - almost - because his father could afford the best, yet. It certainly didn't look the same. He thought of flexing his fingers, saw them follow the command from his brain as smoothly as if they were still flesh.

He didn't want to see the rest of himself in the mirror. He knew most of his left side had been replaced, knew that several organs were now machinery (how had his life actually become a science fiction show). His eye was replaced, too, and there was a slight discrepancy in his vision from one processing signals naturally and the other doing so digitally. It made him dizzy, the first few times he woke up, like putting on glasses with a new prescription. Eventually, though, he got used to it.

His father was also rich enough that Simmons was in a private room, which meant he had to wait for updates on Grif’s condition from the nurses. He was doing fine, he was told. It was taking him a little longer to acclimate to Simmons’ tissue than it was for Simmons to acclimate to his mechanical parts.

Simmons received brief visits from his father during his stay, and Ailani dragged herself away from Grif’s side once or twice to cry on Simmons with gratitude. He ended up awkwardly patting her back as she leaned on his shoulder, while Sarge grinned at him and said he looked great. That did help a little with mitigating Ailani’s tears, and with the knowledge that everything was different, now.

With one impulsive act, everything had changed.

Donut stopped by the day after he called Carolina, a little over a week into his stay. His head flumped back against the pillows with relief when he saw the datapad Donut was carrying.

“Holy cow, you're really a cyborg!” Donut said, and Simmons scowled at him.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“Hey, I heard the rumors, but I had a hard time believing them! Carolina wasn't telling us anything either! So rude of her.”

“You're right, how rude of her to protect my privacy.” Simmons snatched the datapad from Donut’s hands and turned it on, beaming as he started accessing his work files.

“Wow, you must've been really bored if you're that excited to get homework.” Donut flopped into the chair beside Simmons’ hospital bed, crossing his legs daintily at the ankles. In the same way that Grif could effortlessly sprawl on any surface as if it were a lazy boy, Donut sat like he was perching on his own personal throne. “Then again, there aren't many materials in here for self stimulation!”

Simmons was so used to Donut by now that he didn't react to that. “Even if I wasn't bored I'd want my work. I've been out for a week!”

“Well, considering you nearly _died_ , you kind of needed to not be at work.”

Simmons paused, gave him an odd look. “I didn't nearly die.”

“Um, yes you did.” Donut gave him the same look back. “That's why you're a cyborg now, isn't it?”

“No, this is because--” He found it was hard to say aloud, hard to speak the truth of how close he'd come to losing Grif. _I'm like this because_ Grif _nearly died._ “There was an accident, and Grif got hurt and needed some transplants. I volunteered.”

Donut’s eyes widened, and before Simmons could say anything else, he clapped his hands together with glee. “It finally happened! You _do_ love him!”

“What?” Simmons turned red. _He’s right_ , a tiny part of him said, and he locked that away in the Repression Box with all of the other non-annoyance feelings he had about Grif. “I--No I don’t!”

“Yes you do! Why else would you donate half of your body to him? You _love_ him.”

This needed to stop before Donut burst into a playground rhyme. “It was the right thing to do. Grif’s an asshole, but that doesn’t mean I was going to sit around and let him die.”

“So you let doctors turn you into a cyborg, changing your entire appearance and life experience from now on?” A pity that Donut had leaned back in the chair, and therefore was out of reach for Simmons to smack that knowing look off his face. “That’s love, baby~”

“Donut, don’t you have places to be? I’ve got work to catch up on.”

“Fine, Mr. Grumpy Pants, I’ll leave you alone.” Donut stood up, then went, “Oh!” and pulled a card out of the little bag he was carrying.

“That’s from everyone at the office. We were really worried about you, you know! You never miss work!”

Simmons took the card carefully, as if it might disintegrate if he were too rough, and said, “Thanks, Donut.”

“I’ll see you at work!” Donut moved to the door, stopped, and glanced back. When Simmons met his eyes, he smiled softly and added, “I’m glad you’re okay.”

When he was gone, Simmons looked down at the card. It was a generic ‘Get Well Soon!’ sort of deal, probably bought by Donut in the first place. When he opened it, the inside was actually covered in signatures and well-wishes. It took him aback; he’d thought most of the office thought he was annoying, other than Donut, who’d, of course, dotted the ‘i’ in Simmons’ name with a little heart. Even Doc had signed it, though he was a nurse in a clinic downtown and had no affiliation with the company at all. _Keep your chin up! We’re all rooting for you!_ Doc had written.

Simmons wrinkled his nose. He _would_ say something that sounded like it came from a motivational poster.

The day before he was slated to leave, Sarge visited him. He was alone, and Simmons felt simultaneously grateful that Ailani wasn’t going to be crying on him again and nervous as to why Sarge would come by himself.

“You know, Simmons,” Sarge said, settling himself into that chair beside Simmons’ bed, “You’ve actually proven to be a good son-in-law. Giving up so much of yourself to be a cyborg! That’s admirable.”

“I did it to keep Grif alive,” Simmons said, sitting straighter. “As his husband, it’s my duty to keep him safe, sir!”

“Oh, right. Grif. Well, I suppose it was good of you to keep him from dying.” The way Sarge said it so flippantly had Simmons’ hands curling in his lap.

“Maybe now he’ll get some ambition!” Sarge continued. “The taste of death can lead a man to realize a lot of things about himself. Why, with how close he came, Grif should be realizing that no one likes him as he is and get his act together!”

Simmons didn’t want to be angry with Sarge. He liked Sarge, and Sarge was a father figure that seemed to like him back. He didn’t want to ruin that. Yet his fists curled tighter, nails digging into his palms, and he said, “You shouldn’t be so hard on him. He almost _died_.”

Sarge grunted, then went quiet. Simmons remained very still, and after a long, long moment, Sarge said, “I know.”

Well that was unexpected. “Sir?”

“Listen, Simmons. The world's a hard, cruel place, and you've gotta be hard, too, or you'll get eaten alive.” Sarge looked Simmons right in the eye as he spoke. “Now, you and Lopez, you know that. Grif? Grif’s soft. He'll let the world roll right over him without lifting a finger. I love his mama dearly but she never taught the boy any discipline, and if I've gotta be the one to do it, then so be it.”

Simmons absorbed this, thought of his own father. The things Simmons Sr. would say to make Simmons ‘better’.

“I think I understand,” Simmons said, to his hands. “But maybe the constant belittling and insults aren't the way to go.”

There was silence for another long moment. Simmons didn't dare glance up to see Sarge’s expression. Finally, he heard Sarge heave a sigh.

“Maybe you're right,” Sarge said. “But don't think I'm gonna do any girly stuff like hug him or anything!”

Simmons’ lip quirked. “Wouldn't dream of it, sir.”

\- - -

Donut was the one who brought him home from the hospital. He preferred this to his father; it was easier to tune out Donut chattering about office gossip Simmons had missed than it would have been to sit in terse silence with his dad. He got home a few hours before Grif would be back, which gave him time to clean the dust that had accumulated in their absence.

He also used the time to look at himself in the bathroom mirror, the first time he had since his surgery. It wasn't as terrible as he'd expected, he told himself. Most of his face was still flesh, other than his eye and part of his left cheek. The eye didn't even look too creepy, almost like a regular eye but with a red iris. He could see the peek of silver beneath the collar of his t-shirt where his shoulder began, and of course he already knew what his arm and the rest of him under his clothes looked like. He stared at his reflection for a while, acclimating himself to the fact that this would be the face he saw every morning. He purposefully did not look at the cracks in the mirror’s surface, left by his own fist.

When he emerged from the bathroom, he went to his study to start typing his new physical therapy appointment schedule into his calendar. He was still there when Grif came home.

He'd left his study door open for once so he'd hear it, and he didn't even need the sound of their front door opening to know Grif was back; Grif entered the house with a loud, “Fucking FINALLY.”

Simmons steeled himself, then came out into the hall. “What, I thought you'd like sitting on your ass for two weeks.”

“Not when the only thing on TV is soap operas!” Grif complained. “If I had to watch another secret twin revealed to be Francesca’s lover’s murderer I think I might have lost it.”

He stopped, then, and they stared at each other, separated by the length of the living room.

Grif looked...well, Simmons wasn't sure what he'd expected, because he hadn't allowed himself to try and imagine it. Internally panicking about his own appearance was easier than wondering how Grif would look now that part of him came from Simmons.

Grif now had an unintentional undercut from where his hair had been shaved to do the procedure on his eye and cheek. It was eerie, seeing his own green eye in Grif’s face staring back at him. There was a long scar across it (which was kinda ho--no stop) from the surgery. And while there was certainly a difference between Grif’s brown skin and Simmons’ paler freckle-specked complexion, the doctors had done good work, and they blended together more smoothly than Simmons had thought possible.

Eventually, Grif broke the silence. “So, in the coming human-robot war, whose side are you gonna take?”

Simmons snorted. “Neither. I'll let you both kill each other and then rule over the survivors.”

“Oh geez, you in charge? I hope I die in the war.” Grif disappeared into the kitchen, then, and Simmons moved to sit on the couch, picking up the remote. Grif had been right about the hospital’s selection of TV shows, and he could really use a few episodes of some good old sci fi right now.

Grif joined him after he'd settled on DS9, a package of Oreos in his hands. Simmons eyed them.

“You're going to ruin my stomach eating junk food like that.”

“Too bad, it's my stomach now.” Grif gave Simmons a once-over, and Simmons felt the flesh part of his face flush. “Speaking of, how come they didn't just make me the cool cyborg?”

“Uh. Consent issues, I think. You weren't conscious enough to agree, and I don't think your mom wanted to make that choice for you unless she had to.”

“Aw, man! Damnit Mom, now I have to be Frankenstein’s monster instead.” Grif huffed, flopping back against the back of the couch. Simmons gave him a sympathetic pat on the arm, and again thought how odd the sensation of touch was through metal fingers.

“You really don't look bad at all,” he reassured, and Grif looked at him. Simmons could see the paler skin that had been his turn pink, and--oh.

Ears burning, Simmons awkwardly cleared his throat and dropped his gaze. “Be, besides, what matters is that you're alive, right?”

“I guess.” Grif shoved a cookie into his mouth, then said while chewing, “Maybe I should have near death experiences more often.”

“Don't talk with your mouth full,” Simmons said automatically, then asked, “Why would you want that?”

“I think Sarge was almost nice to me.” Grif finally swallowed. “He said I was harder to kill than he thought I'd be.”

Simmons turned away so Grif couldn't see the little smile that crossed his lips. “Well how about that.”

\- - -

The two weeks in the hospital had been helpful in that, by the time he went back to work, Simmons was pretty used to his mechanical parts. He knew he would still have to do the physical therapy scheduled for him by the hospital - him and Grif both - so that he could better understand his new prosthetics, but by that first Monday back he felt confident in how well he was handling them. Grif, too, seemed to be doing well, though during the day they had at home before returning to work he'd caught Grif staring at his new left hand several times.

Everyone at the office seemed pretty happy to see him. He received a lot of companionable pats on the back, Carolina even smiled at him when he reported in to her, and Donut, leaning against his cubicle, informed him that the office was thinking of going drinking that Friday night in celebration of his return.

It had been a long time since he'd been out drinking with more than just Doc and Donut, which in itself was a rare affair because he hated third wheeling. He was beaming as he told Donut he'd love to go.

“Great! Oh--wait, you can still drink alcohol, right?”

“Yes, Donut,” Simmons sighed. “I do still need to eat and drink, and alcohol counts as a drink.”

“But, like, how does that work?” Donut frowned in thought. “Do you digest it the same? Is it a bunch of gross mush sitting in a metal stomach--”

“Donut!” Simmons felt like he must be turning green. This was something he had purposefully not let himself think about, because while he was interested in the mechanisms of his arm, he did _not_ want to imagine how his squishy internal processes were now handled. “I don’t know how it works, okay? I’m not a doctor or a biomechanical engineer.”

“You should learn how to be one, then!” Donut chirped. “You’re really smart, you know.”

A childhood dream, long buried, threatened to poke its head out of the Repression Box. Simmons said, “I know I am, but I don’t really have the time to get a Ph.D. right now.”

“Oh, pish posh. If you really thrust yourself in there, I’m sure you’ll be just fine!”

“Right.” Simmons’ grin was forced. “I’ll get right on that. I’ve also got a lot of work to catch up, so if you could…?”

It took a moment for Donut to get it, and when he did, his eyes widened and he straightened from his lean. “Oh! Oh, sure, I’ll get out of your hair!”

He mercifully left Simmons alone at that, though Simmons did cringe when he heard Donut call back, “Let me know how that doctorate goes!”

As if he was actually going to get a doctorate in any kind of engineering. His father would probably disown him for dropping out of the family business, and why would Donut even suggest that, it wasn’t like he actually knew anything about Simmons or his buried dreams.

 _He wanted to get to know his ‘best friend’s husband’._ Simmons made a face at his computer screen. Donut had visited him in the hospital, bought him a card and made sure everyone (plus Doc) signed it, went to his wedding, drove him home from said hospital--

All the actions of a best friend, or at the very least, a _good_ friend. What the fuck. When did that happen. Simmons certainly hadn’t agreed to it.

He needed an actual best friend to offset this. Immediately, his thoughts went to Grif, and just as quickly he shut that down. Grif barely tolerated him, and his feelings for Grif were...complicated. He’d have to think outside the box on this one.

But first, he had a lot of paperwork to catch up on. He focused on the screen in front of him, pulled up the outstanding documents he’d yet to complete. He’d think about this some other time;  considering the fact that he’d lived his entire life so far without a best friend, he was pretty sure he’d be fine for a while longer.

\- - -

Grif, Simmons realized a few days later, wasn’t sleeping very well.

Unlike Grif, Simmons was a light sleeper. He would awaken at the slightest creak, or the sound of the wind against the windows, or the scratching inside the wall that _could_ be mice but also could be the remnants of a dream. On top of that, he could be a bit of an insomniac at times, his anxious brain forcing him awake in the middle of the night because did he actually do that report correctly, was he _certain_ he didn’t misspell something or use the incorrect word somewhere? On more than one occasion he woke with a start, disoriented, fearful, thinking he’d messed something up or, almost worse, that he was late to work.

This time, he woke up to the smell of cigarette smoke.

He would have chalked it up to his dreams if not for the fact that he knew he’d been dreaming of Carolina giving him a promotion, and Carolina did not smoke. He lay awake in bed, wondering where in his subconscious this smell had come from, until he realized that it was still there. He could still smell the smoke, even while awake.

Confusion turned to irritation. _Grif._

His steps were quiet as he padded out into the living room, toward the light on in the kitchen. He saw Grif’s silhouette before he even entered, how he was leaning against the sink, head turned toward what Simmons assumed was the open window above it. As he stepped onto the tile, light playing across the lenses of his new, customized glasses, he saw that he’d been right: Grif had a cigarette between his fingers and was blowing the smoke out of the open window. Grif was also shirtless, which would have short circuited Simmons’ brain if he weren't so annoyed about the smoking.

Grif jumped when he broke the silence with, “What did I tell you about smoking in the house?”

Grif shifted away, as if he could hide the cigarette Simmons had already seen. “Smoking? Me? I’d never.”

“Oh, so that cigarette in your hand is just my imagination?” Simmons came up to the kitchen counter, leaning his forearms against it as he watched Grif. “I could smell it all the way from my room, Grif. If you wanted to smoke you should’ve gone to the porch.”

“Like you wouldn’t have crawled up my ass saying you smelled it anyway,” Grif said. Simmons winced, unable to help himself. He felt fatigue pulling at his limbs, the way he always did when he awoke in the middle of the night, and yet he shifted closer to Grif.

“That’s not true--” Okay, yes it was, if he smelled the remnants of it on the porch he would definitely still have been annoyed. Simmons cut himself off, said instead, “Why are you up so late?”

“Looking at the stars,” Grif replied, too quickly, in an obvious lie. There was too much light pollution in Blood Gulch to see stars. On top of that, Simmons noted the stiff way Grif held himself, how he refused to look Simmons’ way.

Simmons was very tired, which was probably why he asked, “Can't sleep?”

“No,” Grif said, then realized he'd actually answered and switched to, “I mean, obviously I can sleep, but somebody's gotta watch the stars for alien spaceships, because who knows when one will show up and we'll get abducted and turned into breeders for their parasitic young--”

“Grif, we're in a peaceful alliance with all known alien species.”

“You think that'll stop them? They know where we live, Simmons, they can just drop by any time and impregnate us, just like Tucker--”

“I thought Tucker had an ‘adventurous one night stand’?”

“Okay but still--”

“Grif,” Simmons said, more firmly, and Grif went quiet. He just stood there, cigarette burning between his fingers, staring out of the window. Simmons had never seen Grif this still; it was unnerving.

So Simmons’ tired brain told him it was okay to ask, “Is it nightmares?”

Grif did glance at him then. “How'd you know?” he asked in return, a little hoarse, and yeah something was off if Grif was actually admitting that.

“I, uh. I guessed?”

Grif shot him a Look, and Simmons flushed. “Maybe I get them too,” he grumbled. “And maybe--Grif, you almost died, there's going to be trauma--”

“Fucking Christ, you sound like a shrink.” Grif took a long drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke out of the open window. “I didn't ask you to pick my brain, jackass.”

“I'm just telling you the truth!” Simmons snapped back. “I was _going_ to say you could talk to me, but not now--”

“Oh, like you can talk to me, huh?” Grif turned to face him, leaning against the sink. “Instead of punching our fucking mirror?”

Simmons froze. He’d assumed Grif wouldn't care about where the cracks came from, that Grif hadn't heard him that night. Hadn't noticed the bruising on his hand the next day. But Grif knew, Grif knew how pathetic he was--

Grif’s eyes flicked to Simmons’ mechanical arm. “Try not to do that with your new cyborg fist, because I'm pretty sure you'd shatter the mirror and get a chunk of glass to the face and I already told you I'm not certified for CPR.”

That pulled Simmons out of the panic that had begun building in his chest, in a way only Grif could.

“If I get a chunk of glass in my face, why would you give me CPR at all?” he asked. “How would that help with a head wound?”

“It's supposed to revive people!”

“People who had been _drowning_ or something, not someone who was stabbed in the head by glass--” He stopped, and sighed, rubbing his temples. “You know what? Nevermind.”

They were quiet for a while, Grif still smoking that fucking cigarette as Simmons leaned on the counter. At least, Simmons thought, Grif _was_ blowing the smoke outside, so it wouldn't stain their walls or expose him to secondhand smoke.

Grif was the one who spoke first, quietly asking, “Why did you punch it?”

When had this become about him. They were supposed to be talking about Grif’s problems, not his.

“Was it your dad again?” Grif continued when Simmons remained silent, and God fucking damnit.

“Now you're the one who sounds like a shrink,” Simmons said, and Grif snorted softly.

“Yeah, well, maybe I know a bit about shitty dads.”

“Sarge is a _great_ dad,” Simmons said immediately, because that was what had made him so angry that night, knowing his own father would never say anything nice to him the way Sarge did. Grif rolled his eyes.

“To Lopez, sure.” Grif ground the stub of his cigarette into the bottom of the sink while Simmons glared at the action. “But me? I've got a feeling he wishes that statue had killed me.”

“That's not true,” Simmons said, without thinking. “He cares about you, he told me so.”

Grif stared at him, one eyebrow lifted, and Simmons felt himself flushing again. Fuck. Why did Grif always get him to admit shit.

“Sort of,” Simmons amended. “He came to visit me in the hospital and we talked some.”

Grif looked unimpressed. “And you want me to believe you had a conversation that wasn't just you kissing his ass.”

“I told him to be nicer to you, actually!” Simmons shot back, and Grif’s expression shifted to surprise. He didn’t even accuse Simmons of lying. Instead, the look remained, his eyes searching Simmons’ very red face.

“You…” Grif swallowed, and shook his head. “Why would you do that? You keep helping me out with shit, and I don't get it. You tell Sarge off, you do my work--you gave me half your fucking body to keep me alive even though I'm pretty sure you hate me. What the fuck is your game, man?”

Grif had never been this open with Simmons about anything. It was startling enough to border on uncomfortable, and Simmons had to fight not to squirm under that gaze. Whatever the nightmare had been, it must've been a doozy to put Grif in this state.

“I don't hate you,” Simmons mumbled. _You_ do _love him!_ Donut had said. “And I don't have a game.”

He left it at that. They'd both been vulnerable enough during this conversation, and this time there was no whiskey bottle to blame for it. As Simmons straightened, Grif still watching him, he said,

“It's pretty late. We should try to get some more sleep.”

Grif didn't even look at the clock on the oven. He flicked the cigarette butt into the garbage (Simmons barely restrained himself from a reprimand) and replied, “Yeah. Good idea.”

They retired to their rooms, and though he lay down on his bed, Simmons’ traitorous brain wouldn't shut off. _I'm pretty sure you hate me._ He did act like he hated Grif, didn't he, even though he that wasn't how he felt at all.

Well, okay. Maybe a little bit, but in a fond way, a way he kept close to himself lest Grif see it and mock him for it.

But Grif had started to see it, and was...confused by it. Confused that anyone would do something nice for him, without prompting.

Simmons was familiar with that feeling. He rolled onto his side, stared at the wall that separated his room from Grif’s.

Fucking Donut. Why did he have to be right about things. Why did he have to know that Simmons was in love with an annoying, lazy, beautiful man like Grif. Simmons didn't even want to know it, so what right did _Donut_ have.

 _I'm pretty sure you hate me._ No, Grif, he thought.  Despite all odds, it's the exact opposite.

If only those feelings would stay repressed like he wanted them to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Simmons: good at self-awareness, bad at accepting himself
> 
> as always, find me on tumblr at blackgoliath or on pillowfort at bulkhead
> 
> also: check out [this super awesome art ](https://venochu.tumblr.com/post/181830521473/this-worked-pretty-well-for-a-while-until-a-very) from chapter one!


	6. Party At Nakatomi Plaza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It was only half of his body,” Grif corrected, as if that was somehow less incredible. “And I’m pretty sure he only did it because he’d feel guilty or some bullshit if he didn’t.”
> 
> Kai giggled. “Uh, no, he did it because he’s liked you for like, ever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another Grif chapter! also sorry they keep getting drunk. not like they use it as an excuse for feelings or anything.
> 
> today's theme: Grif you need to stop that

It was the weekend after he’d been released from the hospital that the doorbell rang. Grif didn’t move from his bed, very busy fighting Heartless in Kingdom Hearts 4, which had been released just that year. His nightmares had woken him early, and when sleep hadn’t come back to him he’d decided to play some videogames to distract himself from the image of that statue falling on him over and over again. He’d let Simmons answer the door and deal with whoever the fuck was bothering them on a Saturday morning.

Except he didn’t hear any movement from the room next to his, and whoever it was at the door rang the doorbell again. And again. And again and again and--

There was only one person who could be that annoying, which meant Grif was hurrying out of his room, not bothering to throw on a shirt or change into something that wasn’t sweatpants. Good thing Simmons was passed out from whatever it was that had made him come home at two o’clock in the morning because that meant he wasn’t there to see when Grif threw open the door, or when Kai squealed with glee and threw herself into Grif’s arms.

“Bro! Why the fuck are you half naked!” she said, and Grif grinned and hugged her tighter.

“Because it’s Saturday, and honestly you’re lucky I’m even wearing pants.” He pulled back, then, getting a good look at her. “Damn, sis, is that a new piercing?”

“You like it?” Kai beamed, wiggling her eyebrows, one of which now had a small silver ring through it. “I got my nipples done, too!”

Of course she did. “Thanks for that information I definitely didn’t need,” Grif drawled. “Come on, let’s sit down, I’m starving.”

“You’re _always_ starving!” Kai said, as he moved toward the kitchen. She followed anyway, sitting down at the kitchen table while Grif grabbed them something to eat. There was no way he was going to cook, so he pulled some breakfast burritos out of the freezer and set to heating them up in the microwave. Thank God for instant food.

“Soooo,” Kai said, leaning back in her chair. “Where’s the hubby?”

“Asleep, I think.” Grif started the coffee maker, too. “Hungover probably. He got home late.”

“Well wake him up! I haven’t seen him in years!”

“You could’ve seen him at our wedding,” Grif pointed out, not letting any bitterness creep into his voice. He’d known, at the time, that it was unlikely she’d make it. He’d told himself he was over it. Because he was absolutely over it.

Kai puffed out a breath, tilting her head back and letting her hair fall behind her. “I didn’t even get the invite until it was already over,” she complained. “I would’ve totally come if I’d known! You know how much I love free booze.”

Grif stilled, his back to her, finger on the little cup of coffee mix he was pressing into the machine. What?

“You didn’t get the invite on time?” he asked, managing to sound like her answer didn’t matter.

“Nope. Stupid mail. I was going to call you, but then time got away from me, and when I heard about the accident…”

He heard her get up, didn’t move when she came to his side, rested her cheek against his left shoulder. She took his hand - Simmons’ hand - in her own, turning it over, brushing her fingertips across the palm. Her touch was light, as if she were afraid that being too rough would break his new limb, somehow.

“Mom got in touch with me right after,” she said. “I’m sorry I missed your wedding, I was going to visit at some point, but when I heard the news I had to come right away. Had to be sure you were still alright. Sorry it took so long for me to get here.”

The Grifs, as a family, did not have intimate talks about their feelings. Both Grif children had learned from an early age that if you had a problem you ran away from it, found a distraction, did everything in your power not to confront what was wrong. It was why Grif tried not to care about anything - if you didn’t care enough for it to be a problem, then it wasn’t a problem - and why Kai bounced around from planet to planet chasing whatever had become her latest thrill. It was why his mother had been absent so often from their lives when they were young, going out to parties and functions instead of coming home to face a too-large mansion and two children who needed her.

With their father gone, she was the role model they emulated. And so the vulnerability in Kai’s voice, the clear fear that she wasn’t bothering to hide, had Grif reeling.

“Well now you know,” Grif said, keeping his tone light, “I’m fit as a fiddle. And also half-white.”

Kai snorted, threading her fingers through Grif’s. “Not in the way that counts,” she half-sang, and Grif didn’t ask her what the hell that even meant. Not that Kai would provide an understandable answer if he did. “Man, I’m so jealous of your marriage. Not that I’m ever gonna get married, because ew, but you’ve got a husband who’ll donate, like, his whole body to help you out! That’s pretty fucking cool.”

“It was only half of his body,” Grif corrected, as if that was somehow less incredible. “And I’m pretty sure he only did it because he’d feel guilty or some bullshit if he didn’t.”

Kai giggled. “Uh, no, he did it because he’s liked you for like, _ever._ ”

“What?” Grif pulled away so he could grab some mugs from the cupboard as the coffee continued to brew. “Simmons never liked me.”

“God, you’re so oblivious! He _always_ liked you.” Kai rolled her eyes, leaning her hip against the counter, her weight on the elbow she was resting on its surface. “Which reminds me: is he hot now? Because if you’re not going to tap that, redheads can be pretty kinky--”

Grif felt his face heat, knew that the sliver of cheek that had come from Simmons would be turning bright red. He wasn’t even sure which part he was more annoyed about, Kai’s insistence that Simmons had liked him forever or the fact that she was trying to get with Simmons.

No, actually, the latter part was worse.

“You’re not going to _fuck my husband,_ ” Grif said, and Kai pouted.

“Fiiiiiiine.” She tilted her head, hair now spilling over her arm and onto the counter. Simmons would probably bitch about that, if he were up, something about it being unsanitary. “Can I keep fucking Tucker, then?”

“Not sure why you’d want to, but you can do whatever you want with--” Grif stopped, partway through grabbing another mug. “Wait. How the fuck do you know who Tucker is, and what do you mean, _keep_ fucking?”

“Oh, well, yesterday I tried to go to your job to see you, but I guess you’d already left, and so I started talking to Tucker, and he asked me to get drinks after his shift was over, and he’s pretty hot so we went back to his place.”

Grif remembered the day before, when Wash had actually let him leave a little early, because Grif was tired and it was raining and his new scars ached from the weather and Wash was feeling generous, considering what Grif had gone through, and the fact that he was actually doing his own reports now. He must have just missed Kai.

He shouldn’t be surprised. He’d known Kai her whole life, knew how she could be. Yet he still sounded incredulous when he said, “You came to check on me because I almost died, and before even coming to see me, you fucked one of my coworkers.”

“You weren’t _there_ ,” Kai reminded him, as if that was the important part of this revelation. “What else was I gonna do?”

 _You could’ve come to the fucking house,_ Grif thought but didn’t say. The coffee machine dinged, indicating that it was finished brewing, and he busied himself with pouring coffee. If you didn’t care, it wasn’t a problem. “Sure, fine. You can keep fucking Tucker, whatever. But not Simmons.”

“I knew you liked him,” Kai said, sounding smug. Grif gave her an unimpressed look.

“I can’t imagine what would give you that impression.”

“You got a mug out for him,” she said, nodding toward the counter in front of him. Grif looked down. There were two mugs sitting there filled with coffee, and, Grif noted with a sort of distant horror, he was currently in the process of filling a third.

He hadn’t even thought about it, and yet, here he was, automatically anticipating what Simmons might want when he woke up.

“Well duh,” Grif said, as if he’d meant to do this all along. “Dude’s hungover, it’s easier to make him coffee now than deal with him whining at me all morning.”

Kai didn’t believe him, he could see it on her face, in the shit-eating grin that curved her lips, in how her arms crossed over her chest. This, this was one of those times when he kind of hated her, because what right did she have to disappear for months at a time and then show up saying shit like this as if she even really knew him anymore.

He didn’t let himself think about how the Grifs knew each other no matter what, better than anybody else, because the Grifs were, at their core, all the same.

It was then that Simmons walked into the kitchen, wearing a maroon sleep shirt and black pants, his hair still rumpled from sleep. He looked like shit. Grif would have enjoyed this if not for the fact that Kai was there, and for how Simmons stiffened when he realized there was someone he didn’t expect in his house.

“Bro-in-law!” Kai said, flinging herself at him. Unlike Grif, Simmons was not used to this sort of thing, and so he stumbled even as he tried to catch her. It made Grif smirk into his coffee, and he did get some satisfaction from the utterly bewildered look Simmons gave him.

“Kai stopped by for a visit,” Grif said, purposefully stating the obvious. “Sorry I didn’t get the chance to tell you, Sleeping Beauty.”

Several emotions flickered across Simmons’ face, because he’d never been good at hiding them, and instead of settling on irritation Simmons’ gaze landed on the counter and he asked, “Is that coffee?”

“Yup. All yours.”

Grif very pointedly ignored the look Kai shot him as Simmons picked up the mug and drank.

Simmons didn’t stay long, chugging down half of his coffee, refilling it with what was left in the pot, and then retreating from the kitchen claiming he had work to do. Grif knew better. Simmons, in all of their post-drinking interactions, had never been very good at dealing with a hangover.

Grif watched him go, still smirking. It dropped off his face when he caught Kai’s eye.

“Told you so~” she crooned, and he had to fight very hard against the urge to dump coffee down her shirt.

This was made worse when Grif realized he'd missed the microwave finishing with their burritos, because Simmons had long ago disabled that particularly loud, startling ding, and as they'd gotten cold in all the excitement he had to microwave them all over again while Kai beamed at him. He kept his face turned away, knowing that small sliver of pale skin on his face would be broadcasting a blush his naturally browner skin had always hid.

Fucking Simmons. This was all his fault. Somehow.

\- - -

Kai’s visit was short, as Grif had known it would be. As much as he hated to watch her leave, not knowing when he’d see her again, he was also grateful for it. He did not need any more of her weird commentary on his marriage, and had frankly lucked the fuck out that Simmons was too out of it to be in her presence for long. If Kai had said something about how Grif ‘liked’ Simmons to Simmons’ actual face he would’ve just up and died right there, expiring from shame.

She didn’t do that, instead leaving without anymore pointed comments about his feelings that may or may not exist. It meant that his interactions with Simmons over the next month were normal and totally not emotionally charged at all. They fell back into the rhythm they’d had before Grif’s accident: bickering even as they watched old sci fi shows on the TV, Simmons whining at Grif to clean up after himself, Grif asking when Simmons would pull that stick out of his ass and relax for once.

In private moments, usually when he was hazy from sleep, Grif would admit to himself that he _did_ kind of like this. This camaraderie that had grown between them, even when they argued. It felt good until Grif was fully awake and reminding himself that, no, he didn’t care about any of this, he was just stuck in a scenario he’d never wanted and making do as best he could.

That guy was a jerk, and Kai just liked riling him up. Or something. Whatever excuse stuck would work, because he absolutely, definitely, did not _‘like’_ Simmons.

\- - -

The party their branch hosted at the end of the year was probably the stupidest thing Grif had ever seen in his life. He'd known it was happening for a while, obviously, but he hadn't believed it would be _this_ ridiculous, the decorations a horrifying clash of differing religious symbols as the higher-ups tried to appease everyone at once. They should've just strung some neutral white lights up instead of all this red and green and blue and silver and if Grif looked at it any longer he might get a headache.

“I really wish they'd fire their decorating crew,” Simmons said, beside him. He was wearing a suit with a maroon jacket, very similar to what he'd worn at that party years ago, and Grif was not allowing himself to think of how good he looked in it. “Every year it looks terrible.”

“You've got that right,” Grif agreed. He'd dressed up some, too, even pulled his hair back, though his jacket was also blaringly orange in protest of the fact that he had to get dressed up at all. Simmons had worn an odd expression when he told Grif it was inappropriate as they left the house, which made Grif decide it was the perfect choice.

The party was taking place in the largest room this branch had, located on one of the upper floors of the west building. Neither he nor Simmons had really wanted to go, but they'd both agreed it was preferable to show their faces for an hour or two rather than be needled the following week by coworkers. As they walked further into the room, immersing themselves in the crowd, Grif gently nudged Simmons with an elbow.

“You think Hans Gruber might show up and take us all captive?” he asked, and grinned when Simmons snorted and rolled his eyes, the corner of his lip twitching upward.

They didn't make it very far into the party before they were accosted. Grif had seen Tucker muscling his way through the crowd, but the materialization of Donut, with some guy wearing purple in tow, threw them both off guard.

“Grif, you made it!” Tucker grinned while Donut immediately started chattering at Simmons. Grif tuned them out.

“I'm still not talking to you,” he sniffed.

“What? Aw, c'mon, it's been a whole month! You still haven’t forgiven me?”

“You _fucked_ my _baby sister,_ ” Grif reminded him, though both of them knew Grif wasn’t actually mad about this. Or at least, had stopped being mad weeks ago.

“Hey, she’s a grown woman, and a damn fine one at that.” Tucker grinned, winked, and Grif let loose a long-suffering groan.

“Are you seriously bragging about this to me.”

“No,” Tucker said. Then: “Maybe. Did you know how _flexible_ she is?”

“I swear to God if you say one more fucking word--”

“Grif!” He turned at the sound of his name, Donut stepping forward to insert himself into their conversation. It was the only time Grif could ever remember being grateful to talk to him. Donut was already holding a drink, and Grif vaguely thought of getting one for himself before deciding he didn’t want boring coworker-made punch. “It’s great to see you, and you too, Tucker! Have I introduced you to my boyfriend yet?”

Grif glanced Simmons’ way, noted that he looked vaguely annoyed, then looked at the guy in the purple jacket who was smiling at them both a little nervously. “Can’t say you have.”

“This is Frank.” Donut tugged the man forward by the hand. He gave them both a friendly little wave, and Grif and Tucker shared a look.

“You can call me Doc, actually. Everyone else does, even though I’m only a nurse, not a doctor!” Doc laughed, and this time Grif exchanged looks with Simmons. _Seriously,_ Grif’s eyes said, silently. _I know,_ Simmons’ said back.

“I was hoping I would see you two!” Donut was saying. “Have you seen Caboose at all?”

“Not yet,” Tucker answered. “He’s probably glued to Church’s side somewhere, getting in the way of Church trying to flirt with Tex.”

Considering that was the usual state of affairs at the office, it was probably true. Donut looked slightly disappointed even as he continued, “Some party, huh? They always have such interesting decorations, though I really think they should lift that ban and let me back onto the decorating committee next year, I _d_ _efinitely_ have some notes for their layout strategy that I think they’d really appreciate.”

Grif opened his mouth to say that he doubted it when something about what Donut had said caught his attention, and he asked instead, “Wait, they banned you from the decorating committee?”

Tucker was hiding laughter behind a hand while Simmons sighed. Before Donut could answer, Simmons explained, “Last time he was on the decorating committee, he decided to end the night by hiding inside a giant cake and jumping out of it in a...special ‘holiday’ outfit.”

“Officer Hot Pants! Fucking incredible” Tucker crowed, while Simmons turned pink. Donut, meanwhile, was frowning.

“It was a fun idea!”

“For your boyfriend, maybe,” Grif said, and now it was Doc’s turn to flush. “But not for fifty of your coworkers. Though I have to say, Simmons, the fact that you didn’t foresee this very moment and record that for me is very upsetting.”

“There is absolutely no way I would ever want that recorded,” Simmons answered immediately.

They chatted for a little while longer, and then Tucker proclaimed that he was going to get himself a drink. Grif, however, had seen Washington walk into the party, and the way Tucker purposefully turned away from Grif’s knowing smirk only solidified his theory.

“You know,” Simmons said, after Tucker left, leaning close so that Grif could hear him over the noise of the crowd, “I’m surprised you haven’t glued yourself to the food table yet.”

Grif could feel Simmons’ breath against his ear. It made something in him tighten, not unpleasantly. “You know,” Grif said, pushing the feeling away, realizing now that he _had_ forgone his usual pattern, “You’re right. I should get on that before all the food’s gone.”

“Bring me back a drink?” Simmons asked, catching Grif’s eye. He was close, too close. Grif shrugged.

“Sure.”

Even over the noise of the party, as he walked away Grif heard Donut ask loudly, “Hey, hon, you think we could get Caboose to have a threesome with us?” followed by the sound of Doc choking on his drink. What he didn’t hear was Simmons’ likely immediate death from embarrassment, but he could imagine it well enough in his mind’s eye that he was grinning as he made his way through the crowd to the buffet.

When he got there, he loaded a plate and started snacking before he remembered that Simmons had wanted to get him a drink. He set the plate down and started filling a cup with punch, refusing to think about how he’d done this with coffee that morning Kai visited, when Tucker reappeared at his side, bouncing impatiently on his heels.

“Hurry up, dude, I wanna get wasted,” Tucker said, and Grif looked at him, raising his eyebrows.

“Last time I checked, you can’t get wasted off of Kool-Aid.”

“Oh, right, I keep forgetting you’re still new.” Tucker’s smirk was full of mischief. “You can’t get drunk off of Kool-Aid, but you _can_ get drunk off the bottles of vodka I added.”

Grif stared at him. “You spiked the punch?”

“Hell yeah I did! The best part about the holidays is finding out who drunk hooked up with who the next day. Bow chika wow wow!”

Grif processed this. On the one hand, he and Kai were in agreement: never say no to free booze. On the other, Simmons had asked for a drink. He remembered the last time they were drunk together, the weird shit Simmons always said about his dad when he was tipsy. Well, if things started to go in either of those directions…Grif could just walk away. There were plenty of people here to entertain Simmons in his absence, after all, and they didn’t _have_ to leave at the same time.

“Isn’t Wash going to get on your ass for that?” Grif said, as he began filling a second cup with punch. “Or any of the other uptight boss people that’re here?”

“Nah, they never know it’s me. The chick in Accounting who makes the punch every year always gives me the hook-up, lets me in early so I can spike it, and she's such a goody two-shoes usually that they don't blame her, either.” Tucker looked proud of himself, and Grif had to admit, he was pretty impressed.

“So you’re fucking her, too?” he asked. “I honestly would not have expected you to be getting this much tail.”

“What? No way! Her girlfriend would _kill_ me.”

“Ah.” Grif lifted his cup in a toast, said, “Cheers, then,” and took a drink. Yeah, once he had it on his tongue, it was very obvious there was alcohol in it. He moved to grab his plate and Simmons’ drink, then realized he was faced with a dilemma.

“Hey, Tucker,” he said, “Can you help me bring this back to the others?”

“No can do, bud.” Tucker was staring at someone off in the crowd; Grif suspected it was Wash again, but the people nearest them shifted and blocked his view. “Church and Caboose are coming over, though, why don’t you ask them?”

Grif grimaced, remembering Donut’s _very awkward_ question of Doc (which, now that he knew the punch was full of vodka, made a lot more sense). Of course Tucker didn’t give him the chance to say anything else, already moving into the chattering press of bodies. He had at least been right: as Grif stood there, Church approached, looking annoyed, while Caboose trailed him like a lost puppy.

“Did Tucker spike the punch?” Church asked sharply, once he was within range.

“Yeah,” Grif answered, and without another word Church refilled his cup and immediately chugged about half of it.

“The mean security lady told him to go away,” Caboose explained in a low voice, getting way too close as he did. Unlike with Simmons, Grif was not happy with the proximity, and immediately leaned away.

“Shut up Caboose,” Church said on reflex, even though there was no way he could’ve heard him.

“Try not to get too shit-faced, Leonard,” Grif said, on purpose, for the irritated look Church shot him. “Remember, this is a company function.”

To spite him, as Grif had known he would, Church pounded the remainder of his drink and started refilling it again. “You shut up too. Why are you bothering me instead of your giant dork of a husband, anyway?”

Grif almost bristled, then took another gulp to steady himself, because there was no fucking way he was going to get protective of _Simmons._ Especially when Simmons was, in fact, a giant dork. “Hanging out with Donut and his not-a-doctor boyfriend. Donut’s looking for you, Caboose, by the way.”

He probably shouldn’t be helping Donut with his weird sex life, but Caboose also lit up when he heard that, and damnit it was stupidly charming. “Okay! Where is he?”

“If you carry Simmons’ drink for me, I’ll show you.”

They left Church behind to mope, Grif expertly balancing his plate on one hand while the other held his drink. When they finally found Simmons again, Donut and Doc were gone, and Simmons had retreated to his favorite party haunt: a corner by a large ficus, where he had a good amount of space between himself and everyone else.

“Hello, Caboose,” Simmons said, somewhat confused, when they showed up in front of him and Caboose passed him the drink he’d been carrying.

“Hi Simmons!” Caboose smiled, and Grif remembered, as if the conversation earlier hadn’t been a clear indication, that Simmons had been working here for a lot longer than Grif, that Simmons had known these people for years. It made him feel...odd. He took another drink.

“That’s got vodka in it, by the way,” he said, as Simmons raised the cup to his lips. He stopped, squinted at Grif.

“Somehow, every year, I find myself thinking Tucker won’t get away with it.” Simmons drank, then, thankfully not in the gulping way Church had. Grif didn’t want to drag Simmons home again.

“Have you seen Donut?” Caboose asked innocently, and Simmons coughed into his cup.

“Uh. Why?”

“Oh, Grif said he was looking for me.” Caboose was beaming again as he looked down at Simmons, because Caboose was the only person Grif knew that was actually taller. “Do you know where he is?”

Simmons shot Grif a look that Grif purposefully ignored, focusing on consuming the food on his plate. “I think he went that way,” Simmons said, gesturing in a direction Grif didn’t see, because he was just here eating and absolutely not paying attention at all. When Caboose thanked him and left, Simmons leaned forward and hissed, “Really? You’re really helping Donut fuck _Caboose_?”

“I just said Donut was looking for him,” Grif said, mouth full of food just so he could see the way Simmons’ face pinched in irritation. He was in a playful mood tonight, it seemed. “I’m not leading him to Donut’s bedroom or anything.”

“Fuck, don’t even joke about that, I don’t want that image in my head.”

Grif wandered away not long after that to get more food and to refill his drink, and by the time he came back, Simmons was gone. A quick glance around found him deep in conversation with Carolina, back straight, clearly eager to have her attention. Ugh. Trust Simmons to be a kiss-ass even now.

He ended up revisiting the buffet several times, which was usual for him. What wasn’t usual was how he walked around otherwise, eating and drinking, sometimes chatting up coworkers, sometimes just watching them chat up each other. He ran into Church a few times, who was still pouting about his encounter with Tex, and when he saw Donut and a pink-faced Doc talking to Caboose, he steered clear. Tucker was nowhere to be seen, Simmons kept eluding him, and Grif at one point bumped into Carolina’s husband, York, which led to a very awkward exchange of pleasantries and small talk that he couldn’t get away from fast enough. Eventually, his head pleasantly fuzzy from the punch, his stomach finally full, he went searching for Simmons.

Simmons was not, he found, anywhere on the floor, which was odd. Had he left already? Grif checked his phone, found no new messages. Simmons wouldn’t just leave without telling him. Fuck, what if he’d gotten too drunk and passed out in one of the offices?

This was the largest open space on the property, yet there were still a few offices on this floor, because the company couldn’t have a space that wasn’t somewhat dedicated to work. Grif walked down the hall, searching for any doors left ajar, knowing that the closed ones would likely have something he did _not_ want to see behind them. The thought occurred that Simmons might be in an office with a closed door, hooking up with some faceless coworker, and Grif was definitely not at all jealous at this possibility.

Simmons was not behind a closed door. Simmons was, when Grif finally found him, behind a partially open door, sitting at the computer, his empty cup on the desk beside him. The computer was on, and Simmons was typing away at the keyboard, mouth turned down at the corners. The door was open enough that Grif could slip inside without touching it, and so Simmons didn’t realize he was there until he spoke.

“Dude,” Grif said, watching Simmons jump a mile at the sound of his voice, “Are you fucking _working?_ ”

“Grif, what the fuck!” Simmons put a hand over his heart and glared at Grif in the dim light of the office. Most of the illumination was coming from the computer screen, as well as the lights of the city outside the building. “What are you doing in here?!”

“What are _you_ doing in here? You’re at a party, man, why are you doing work--” He stopped, noticing then how Simmons had angled himself, trying to keep Grif from seeing what was on the screen. “You’re not doing work, are you.”

Something about Grif’s tone - the growing delight, probably - had Simmons scowling more deeply. “I’m--of course I was doing work, I was just checking on something--”

“You’re _not!_ ” Grif said, half cackling, sounding a lot like Tucker as he came forward, crowding past Simmons to see what he was hiding. There was a brief scuffle as Simmons tried to push him away, but Grif leaned hard against him and peered over his head at the computer.

It didn’t immediately make sense to Grif, as what he was looking at was a simple list of employees. He saw Donut and Simmons’ name there (Franklin Delano Donut? Really? Hadn’t he said Doc’s name was Frank? He would date a guy with the same first name as him) and assumed that meant these were employees from Simmons’ department. He heard Simmons’ growling his name, still shoving against him, and ignored it until he caught sight of the account name at the top right of the screen.

“Holy shit,” Grif said, and yes that was definitely delight, “You hacked _Carolina’s_ account?”

“Get off of me!” Simmons snapped, and Grif did, finally, though he didn’t go far, hands coming to rest on the arms of the desk chair Simmons was sitting in. Simmons, meanwhile, was glaring up at him, his cheeks such a bright red they nearly matched his cyborg eye.

“I was just--” Simmons started, gaze flicking away from Grif’s. Understandable, with how Grif was smirking at him. “Carolina always chooses an employee of the year. I wanted to see what my standing is.”

“So you hacked her account to check it while she was busy at the party and wouldn’t notice.” Grif was still smirking, still half-looming over Simmons. “That’s very naughty of you.”

“I--fuck off!” Simmons was so red. It was kind of cute, highlighting the freckles that had remained into adulthood, even in the low light of this abandoned office. Grif was leaning near enough that he could almost count them, like stars in the sky on those few occasions when he’d been on a ship and light pollution hadn’t blanked out the surrounding space into an empty darkness.

They were so close. Just as close as they’d been when Simmons asked him for a drink. Closer, even, because their eyes were locked, and Grif’s smile was faltering some, and he should really back off before he did something stupid and Simmons hated him more than ever--

He didn’t get the chance. As he was standing there, leaning on the desk chair Simmons’ sat in, thinking about stupid bullshit like how Simmons’ freckles reminded him of stars, Simmons suddenly grabbed at Grif’s collar and surged forward to kiss him.

He missed, hit Grif’s cheek, nose jabbing into Grif’s skin.

“Fuck, dude.” Grif already sounded breathless as he pulled back, didn’t let himself think about that. “Just--fuck--wait a second--”

“Oh, _shit,_ ” Simmons said, jerking away, his breathing uneven and shallow. Grif didn’t need to be a mind reader to know that Simmons was on the cusp of freaking out; he’d seen it enough before.

“Stop that,” Grif ordered without thinking, and Simmons froze. “We haven’t even kissed yet, stop going nuclear.”

It was a surprising enough statement that Simmons’ meltdown stalled, which gave Grif enough time to press forward and bring their lips together for real. It took a few seconds for Simmons to soften, probably thinking this was some kind of game, but when Grif didn’t pull away he started to return it, arms shakily snaking around Grif’s shoulders.

Simmons tasted...good. Better than Grif could have imagined, even with the lingering vodka-laced punch on his tongue. Grif pressed closer, fingers curling around the arms of the desk chair Simmons still sat in. He started out slow, not wanting to scare Simmons off, until he felt the rest of Simmons relax as he threaded his fingers through Grif’s hair. Then Grif licked his way into Simmons’ mouth and he swore he heard Simmons _moan_ against his lips. It made him kiss harder, one hand coming up to Simmons’ cheek, his knee pushing between a thigh and the side of the chair.

The chair was not large enough for the two of them to both be in it without being on top of each other, and Grif was pretty fine with that right now. In fact he found he would very much like that, so he moved, hoisting himself into straddling Simmons’ lap. Simmons made a startled noise against Grif’s mouth, then moaned again, one hand sliding down Grif’s back to curl possessively around his waist. This time Grif was the one who made a noise, because he really liked that, too.

He'd just trailed his lips down to Simmons’ throat to press a line of hot kisses there when he felt Simmons go still beneath him. He frowned, lifting his head to ask what was wrong, his mind too slow to understand why Simmons looked horrified.

He realized why when he heard Donut squeal behind him, “Oh my _God,_ finally!”

Grif groaned, dropped his forehead to Simmons’ shoulder. He hadn't even thought to close the door. There was no way he could explain his way out of this one - he was straddling Simmons, who was beet red and apparently incapable of speaking right now.

“What's going on?” came Caboose’s voice, and oh _fuck_ no.

“Donut,” Grif said, turning his head without getting up. Donut was peeking in through the partially opened door; he hadn't opened it completely, at least, though Grif was positive Caboose - and probably Doc, too - were likely trying to peer inside to see who Donut had found.

“Close that door,” Grif continued, meeting Donut’s look of delight with the most unimpressed glare he could manage, “And walk away.”

“No need to tell me twice~” Donut cooed, and Grif wished he had something to throw at him. “You lovebirds have fun now! Use protection!”

He closed the door, then, and they were alone. Grif couldn't look Simmons in the face as he grumbled, “I hate him so much.”

“He saw us,” Simmons squeaked. “He's gonna tell _everybody_ \--”

“Yeah, well, whatever. It's fine.” He forced himself to meet Simmons gaze, then, took his face in both hands. Simmons’ eyes were wild, and the flush was leeching from his cheeks as he paled. Another meltdown was imminent. “It's _fine_ , Simmons. Okay? Who cares what they say, they were saying it anyway.”

“Yeah, but now they're _right_ ,” Simmons whined. “Donut’s going to be smug for _days._ ”

“Fuck Donut.” Grif made a face at himself for the phrasing. “Well, you know what I mean. I can fuck whoever I want, he can't stop me with his stupid gossip.”

That had Simmons pausing, his breathing unsteady but no longer edging into hyperventilating. He was staring at Grif. “You...want to?”

“I'm currently half-hard in your lap,” Grif said, dryly. Simmons flushed; that was better. “What do you think I want, a fucking tea party?”

Grif was never usually this assertive; he preferred things to come to him. But right now he was drunk and turned on and he was _not_ about to let Donut ruin the first action he was getting in over a year, even if it was with the husband he may or may not like. Just a little bit.

“Well, I…” Simmons swallowed, licked his lips, and his breath caught in his throat when that immediately had Grif’s eyes locking onto his mouth. “We can't here.”

“Then we'll go home.”

Dragging himself off of Simmons’ lap, he stood, tried to straighten out his jacket. Simmons stood too, more slowly, almost warily. As if Grif was going to reveal this was all a big joke. He carefully kept his face blank so that Simmons wouldn’t see how annoyed he was at being doubted this much, like he was a cat that was exposing its belly only so it could scratch up Simmons’ hand.

Which was why he grabbed for it, ignoring the little yelp Simmons gave as Grif dragged him out of the room by the hand. He kept holding it until they were back in the main room of the party, knowing that Simmons would only panic more if they were seen holding hands after Donut had walked in on them making out. He didn’t touch Simmons again, after that, even when they’d made it all the way out of the building, waiting for their ride home in the chilly air.

It was a stupid place to wait. Grif hated the cold, always had, arms crossing over his chest and shoulders hunching as he tried to keep himself from shivering. Simmons, without saying a word, moved closer, and in a move Grif wouldn’t have expected while they were still in public, slid a warm arm around Grif’s waist, tucking Grif against his side. It helped, and Grif let himself lean into it. He wasn’t going to acknowledge that it was warming him in more ways than just temperature wise and his lingering desire to get fucked tonight.

The ride back, once the Uber showed up, was charged. Grif really wanted to press up against Simmons more, but he knew Simmons wouldn’t let him, so he stayed on his side of the seat and drummed his fingers against the car door as he watched the city lights flash by. At least it wasn’t a long drive; Simmons’ father had gotten them a place relatively close to where they worked.

Grif scowled at his reflection in the window and forced any thoughts of Senior out of his mind.

When they reached the house, Grif nearly stumbled as he walked up the front path, felt Simmons’ hand at his elbow, steadying him. Well, that was dangerous. Both of them were really drunk; if either tripped again, they’d both go down.

“You gonna carry me over the threshold?” Grif asked, smirking up at Simmons, a little giddy. “You didn’t do that after our wedding.”

“You say that like I can lift you,” Simmons replied, though there was no real heat in it, and his expression was kinda twitchy. Grif shrugged it off.

They made it to the door without falling over, somehow, and Grif watched impatiently as Simmons worked the keypad that would let them in. Finally, the door unlocked, and they made their way into the dark house, letting it slide shut behind them.

Grif opened his mouth to make some cheeky remark about ‘your place or mine’ when Simmons grabbed him, shoving him against the door and startling a groan out of him before it was swallowed by Simmons’ mouth on his. Add one more unexpected event to the list for the evening, he thought, distantly, as his hand fisted in Simmons’ jacket, the other purposefully mussing up Simmons’ perfect hair. The kiss was sloppy, too eager, and Grif couldn’t give less of a shit. He wanted more, and groaned again in gratitude when Simmons pressed flush against him, slid a thigh between his legs that he could grind against.

This time there was no Donut to interrupt when he started kissing at Simmons’ throat, nipping the skin just to hear the way Simmons gasped. His flesh hand had returned to Grif’s curls, the other stroking down Grif’s back and then up again, under his jacket and the shirt Grif hadn’t bothered to tuck in, and Grif jerked at the cool metal touching his now overheated skin.

“What?” Simmons breathed, and there was that note of fear in it. He really needed to fucking relax.

“Nothing,” Grif said, against Simmons’ neck. “‘S just cold.”

“Oh.”

Grif dragged his teeth over Simmons’ skin and was rewarded with a shiver. Good, yes, stop worrying and just enjoy it.

He felt Simmons rock against him and ground their hips together in response, not caring that they were dry-humping like horny teenagers in the front hallway of their house. It was _their_ house, they could do what they want. And what he wanted, very badly, was to feel Simmons come against him. He dropped a hand to Simmons’ ass, grinned madly into the crook of Simmons’ neck when he heard the resulting squeak. God, he was so fucking adorable sometimes, it drove Grif wild--

“Grif,” Simmons said, and pushed away, leaving Grif panting and cold against the door.

“Oh Christ, what is it now?”

His eyes had adjusted somewhat, though he still felt more than saw the glare Simmons gave him. Better than him having an anxiety attack, at least.

“I just--we’re really drunk.” Grif could still kind of see how Simmons’ hair was sticking up, the silhouette of it. He wanted to touch it. “Maybe we should wait until we’re not?”

“What?” It took a moment for Grif to realize what Simmons was saying, his thoughts still caught up in touching, and when it did he said, “Wait--what! _Why?_  We were just getting started!”

“Because,” Simmons snapped, and fucking hell there was hurt in his voice, “Intoxication does not equal consent, and I doubt either of us wants to wake up tomorrow and regret doing something we did not, actually, want to do.”

Simmons was drunk off his ass and still managed to sound like a college professor. Fucking asshole. “I’m pretty sure I already told you I wanted to do this.”

“Oh yeah, and I’m supposed to believe you won’t pretend like nothing happened tomorrow?”

Grif’s vision had adjusted further, enough so that he could see the harsh glimmer of Simmons’ eyes. The robotic one didn’t help, a glowing red that only hardened the rest of Simmons’ face. Grif really wanted to go back in time and skip the whole party, now.

“Fine!” He threw up his hands, kept them there as he walked past Simmons. Or tried, anyway; he knocked against the wall and nearly fell over, which was probably completely proving Simmons’ point that they were too drunk to really do this. _Fucking asshole._ “Fine! We’ll fuck tomorrow! If you can even look at me without freaking the hell out, you know, like you always do!”

He’d groped his way to his bedroom door by then, gratefully slipping inside before Simmons could get in another word. He knew Simmons would burn with it, seethe for hours over the fact that Grif had beaten him. Good. They could both go to bed unsatisfied.

The room swam a bit as he staggered toward the bed, and yeah a part of Grif was thinking that Simmons has absolutely been right. He squashed that traitorous idea. Simmons was a cockblocker of his own cock, that was what he was. Grif found comfort in this as he flumped onto his bed, not even bothering to change out of his suit. Who cared, not him. Without meaning to, he raised a hand to touch his lips, still tingling from how Simmons had kissed him. They could’ve gotten off together and maybe fallen asleep on the couch, and instead Simmons had _ruined it._ Fucking, uptight, whiny kiss-ass--

Grif rolled over onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. He’d need to move at some point before he suffocated, but for now he lay there and groaned dramatically into the pillowcase. Simmons always ruined _everything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> of course, I'm blackgoliath on tumblr and bulkhead on pillowfort 
> 
> also: check out [this super awesome art ](https://venochu.tumblr.com/post/181830521473/this-worked-pretty-well-for-a-while-until-a-very) from chapter one!


	7. Wham Bam Thank You Ma'am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was drinking the last of his coffee when Grif said, “So like, when are we gonna fuck. Did you put it in your day planner or whatever? I’d like to know ahead of time so I can schedule my nap around it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so here's why we've got the explicit rating: this is the Sexy Chapter(tm). Merry Christmas you children, have some sin.
> 
> today's theme: just because a guy fucks you doesn't mean he _likes_ you.

Simmons woke with dry mouth and a light headache. He lay in bed for a few moments, taking stock of the rest of him, before deciding that this wasn’t the worst hangover he’d ever had. That had been the night after his wedding--no, the morning after he’d gotten drunk with Grif on the couch. No, wait, it had been the morning when he’d come home after his ‘welcome back’ party at the bar down the street from work, after he’d given half of himself to Grif and mistakenly thought becoming a cyborg would increase his tolerance.

It was one of those. This hangover wasn’t nearly as bad.

The problem was that this meant Simmons was beginning to remember what happened last night. He’d messed up again, he knew that for certain even before the details came back. He’d---he’d kissed Grif. Shit, oh _shit,_ why had he done that--

More details filtered in. Grif had...seemed into it. Grif had said he’d wanted it. More than once.

And then Simmons had gotten cold feet, the realization that they were shitfaced piercing through his hazy, lust-filled mind. On the one hand, it was the right thing to do, because he was fairly certain that if they’d done anything while Grif was drunk he would pretend he didn’t remember any of it. He’d give Simmons that blank look if he dared bring it up, and fuck, he couldn’t face that, he couldn’t face Grif only having done it because he was horny, and he was drunk. On the other hand…

Simmons’ cheeks heated as he recalled how it felt to hold Grif against him, to kiss him, to have Grif’s mouth on his neck. _We’ll fuck tomorrow!_ Had he meant it? Knowing Grif, who enjoyed saying things and then acting like he never had, probably not. Simmons couldn’t help but hope anyway, especially with those memories so fresh in his mind, and he forced himself out of bed before he could grow more heated and do something ridiculously embarrassing like masturbate to them.

He’d done that the night before, he remembered now, after he’d gotten over being pissed at Grif. Or maybe being pissed at Grif was part of why he’d so desperately needed to jerk off. Either way it was mortifying, and his cheeks stayed pink all through him getting dressed and brushing his teeth.

The first thing he did when he shuffled into the kitchen in his house slippers was turn on the coffee maker. The next thing he did was putter about gathering the ingredients for eggs and bacon, because he didn’t particularly have the patience right now to make pancakes or an omelet or anything with more than a few steps. All he wanted to do was set out a flat pan for the bacon and another frying pan for making scrambled eggs, and even the latter was a little much, but he refused eating eggs in any capacity that wasn’t scrambled because yolks had the most _terrible_ texture.

He wasn’t a very good cook, and he definitely burned the bacon, but as he was placing the last few slices on a paper towel-covered plate to dry, the eggs already settled onto their own plate, Grif walked in with his nose in the air like a cartoon character floating after waves of smell. 

“Thank fuck,” Grif said, immediately crowding Simmons as he reached to grab another plate from the cupboard. He didn’t seem to notice that he was practically pressed against Simmons’ side, didn’t seem affected at all by the night before. Of course he wasn’t. Simmons carefully moved away, taking the pans with him in order to rinse them in the sink, his heart dropping into his gut.

“Hey,” Grif said, as Simmons drained the bacon grease into the designated grease can. “Thanks for making this. It’s good.”

Simmons shot Grif a bizarre look, but Grif was focused on his food, inhaling his eggs like he thought someone would take them away from him. Simmons decided on an awkward, “You’re welcome,” before grabbing his own breakfast, complete with coffee, and leaving the kitchen to go sit on the couch.

He felt off, so he used their on demand - one of the few indulgences he allowed them based on their budget - to put on one of his favorite Steven Universe episodes. The art style was weirdly comfortable, had always been since he was a kid. The episode was about Pearl, of course, as she was his favorite. It wasn’t the one where she fused with Amethyst because that reminded him far too much of Grif.

He didn’t expect Grif to join him, but he didn’t flinch away when he felt the couch shift beside him as Grif sat down. They watched a few episodes in silence, Simmons eating while Grif drank his own cup of coffee, and after a while Simmons began to relax. So Grif didn’t want him, not actually. Fine. He could still enjoy this.

He was drinking the last of his coffee when Grif said, “So like, when are we gonna fuck. Did you put it in your day planner or whatever? I’d like to know ahead of time so I can schedule my nap around it.”

Simmons hacked, gagged, had to keep a hand over his mouth as he struggled not to puke onto their living room table. Grif was still sitting there, seemingly unaffected, though when Simmons got a hold of himself enough to look he could see the lines of tension along Grif’s body. Wait, what?

“You,” Simmons asked, voice hoarse from all the coughing, “You still want to?”

It was an unfortunate echo of the night before, and had Grif giving him a very ‘you’re fucking kidding me’ look. It was worse when the expression cleared and he sagged against the back of the couch, adding, “Nevermind.”

“No, wait.” Simmons swallowed, pressed his suddenly sweaty palms against his thighs. “I, ah. Hadn't really thought of a specific time, so we can, uh, do that whenever, um, whenever you want to.” Had his voice cracked? God, as if this wasn’t awkward enough.

His cheeks burned, and he couldn't look at Grif, instead staring at the coffee table. There was a moment when the only sound in the room was the TV.

And then Grif said, “Well we're on the couch already, how about now?”

Did he want to do this now? He kept his eyes on the coffee table and found that yes, yes he did. Better now than later, anyway; better to go through with it instead of giving him enough time to get too nervous and back out. Again.

Simmons swallowed again, bit his lip. Then he nodded. “Yeah, uh, okay. Now’s fine.”

“You should probably look at me then, I'm not fucking like those married couples that force themselves into it and can’t look at each other.”

That was enough to get a snort out of Simmons, and his shoulders relaxed from where they'd been creeping up toward his ears. He did look, saw the neutral face Grif was trying to give him; it wasn’t quite as good as the usual, however. That tension Simmons had seen a moment prior was back. Was Grif _nervous?_ That couldn’t be right; why would Grif be nervous? He seemed like the type who had casual sex (because this was, of course, only casual, _don’t let yourself forget that, Richard,_ ) all the time. Then again, finding somebody to fuck was a lot of work, and he doubted Grif would be bothered to go out of his way unless someone practically fell into his lap.

“Okay, you can’t stare at me like that either,” Grif said, dragging Simmons out of his thoughts. “It’s kind of creeping me out.”

Shit, Simmons _had_ been staring. “Sorry. I was just--um. So how do we start this…?”

Grif had shifted on the couch so that he was facing Simmons better, and when Simmons said that his lip curved. “Really? Geez. I knew you were a virgin.”

“I’m not a virgin!” Simmons snapped, though he knew it wouldn’t matter, because no one ever believed him. He felt his face heat again, though not for the same reason as before. “It’s just--been a while!”

“Sure, sure.” That was disbelief, and Grif was grinning at him knowingly, like he knew anything about Simmons at all.

“It’s okay man, you’re still young! And I’ll be gentle with your sweet virginal body--”

Simmons was pissed off again, the way he’d been the night before, the way that made him want to strangle Grif while he was simultaneously starting to get hard in his pants. Maybe that was why he didn’t storm off and instead grabbed fistfuls of Grif’s shirt and cut him off with his mouth, kissing him hard. This time, he didn’t miss.

Simmons felt how Grif jerked in surprise, and if he weren’t still so irritated, that would’ve made him pull back. He was glad he didn’t when Grif grabbed him by the shoulders and slid his tongue past Simmons’ lips, dragging a moan out of him just like he had the night before, a noise Simmons wanted to be embarrassed about but couldn’t be because he was preoccupied with getting as close to Grif as possible. He’d really, really wanted this last night, had denied it to himself because he would die if Grif ended up regretting it; but Grif was here now, pressed against him on the couch, lips moving hungrily over Simmons’, and that made Simmons a bit. Eager.

He drank in the disappointed noise Grif made when he broke away, then the actual _surprise_ on Grif’s face when he swung his leg over Grif’s, switching their positions from last night as he settled into Grif’s lap. Simmons felt the hands on his shoulders drop to his hips, Grif’s pupils blown wonderfully wide, lips red from kissing.

“Dude,” Grif said, even sounding a bit awed; Simmons felt like his entire nervous system was buzzing. “Where’d you learn to kiss like that?”

Grif didn’t seem to realize he was complimenting him. Simmons grinned.

“I told you I’m not a virgin.”

“I might actually believe you.” Grif’s fingers had started kneading, and while his hips weren’t a particularly erogenous zone it still felt good. “Who…?”

“Uh. Daughter of one of Father’s friends.” Simmons really did not want to think of his father right now, or even of his first time, a drunken fumble in the dark - Grif would kill him if he admitted that after what he’d pulled the night before. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Sure,” Grif said, and the speed with which he responded, rather than poking at Simmons for the details to prove he had _actually_ had sex before, was even more convincing than the hard-on Simmons could feel through Grif’s pants. It made his hands slide up to tangle themselves in dark curls as he pulled Grif back to him, reclaimed his mouth.

Somewhere in there, they turned off the TV, because Simmons would allow fucking on the couch this time but he would _not_ do it with a children’s cartoon playing in the background. It felt good to be kissing Grif like this with his mind clear of alcohol, and when Grif’s hands inevitably cupped his ass Simmons expected it, didn’t even startle. Unfortunately he didn’t expect Grif to pinch him; it made him yelp before he pulled away to glare.

Grif was smirking. “What?” he asked, innocent. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You _pinched_ me!”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Would you rather I spanked you?”

Something about that sent a tremor through him and Simmons turned beet red, oh God oh _no_ please don’t let him discover some kind of kink right in the middle of this--

Grif’s expression changed, and he carefully slid his hands up the back of Simmons’ shirt, fingertips tracing over where cybernetics met flesh, pulling Simmons closer as he did it. “C’mon, I was only joking. Don’t get all upset now, okay? We’re doing this, and it’s gonna be fine.”

The way Grif spoke, the touch at his back, did what Grif wanted: Simmons calmed. Grif had an uncanny ability to rile him up and cut off his more anxious tendencies at the same time. He always had.

Still, Simmons was Simmons, so he whined, “Stop making fun of me then!” and Grif chuckled and nipped at his jaw.

Impatient, not wanting to give Grif more time to make wisecracks at his expense, Simmons started pushing up Grif’s shirt, pulled away again so he could drag it up and over Grif’s head. Simmons had seen Grif shirtless before, after he would take a shower and _rudely_ walk back to his room in just a towel, and it felt good to finally get to touch, to run his hands along Grif’s bare skin, to feel how Grif’s heartbeat stuttered when Simmons brushed his fingers over it. Grif was being very distracting with his lips and his teeth on Simmons’ throat again (fuck he loved that, drunk or not this discovery still held true) but Simmons didn’t let it keep him from touching, rolling his palms over Grif’s nipples, squeezing his chest, mapping it all out with his hands.

Apparently he did this for too long because after Grif bit him and he moaned, squeezing again, Grif pulled back to say, “What, are you gonna bounce them around next? I’m not a chick, you don’t have to focus so much on my tits.”

“I--what?” It took Simmons a moment to refocus, blinking down at Grif. When realization hit, so did anger, and embarrassment, and he would’ve snapped something if he didn’t also notice an odd edge to Grif’s words. He almost seemed...self-conscious. So instead Simmons moved his hands to Grif’s shoulders and said, “Sorry.”

Immediately, Grif reeled it in. “No, it’s--fuck. We’re supposed to be fucking, not arguing.” He jerked up Simmons’ shirt, and Simmons obediently lifted his arms so that it could join Grif’s on the floor. “How do you wanna do this, anyway?”

“How do I…?” Simmons stopped, and realized that he had no idea. They stared at each other.

“Well, you’ve got zero experience with dudes, so we could start simple, do some handies, or I could blow you, or--”

“I want you to fuck me.”

It was out of his mouth before he’d even realized he’d had the thought, and Grif jolted, eyes wide as he looked at Simmons, who currently wished he could sink through the floor. It wasn’t just his face that was flushed, now; he knew his body well enough that he could tell it would’ve spread down his shoulder and chest.

Grif licked his lips, then said, “Alright.”

Simmons tried not to seem too interested, failed. “Yeah?”

“Ye--Yeah. If that’s what you want.” Another swipe of Grif’s tongue over his lips, as if they were suddenly very dry. Simmons tried not to stare. “I would’ve thought, you know, if you’d been with a girl first you’d want it the other way around, but. If that’s what you want to do, I--I’m fine with it.”

Simmons wasn’t going to admit that this had been a fantasy of his when he’d gone through puberty and gained a sex drive, in those first few years after Grif moved, before he finally convinced himself he was never going to see Grif again and it was pointless to imagine them being together that way. So he simply nodded, grip tightening as Grif let out a long exhale.

“Okay, then. Yeah. Okay. I can do that.” Grif looked back up at him. “We’re gonna need lube for that. You have some, right?”

Simmons thought of the small bottle of lube he kept in his nightstand drawer for the occasions when he wanted to finger fuck himself while masturbating. “I think so.”

“Good, then you can just. Go get that.”

Rising excitement at having this old fantasy fulfilled gave way to annoyance. “Why can’t you get yours!”

“Because,” Grif said, drawing the word out, “I’m going to be doing all the work in fucking you, so the least you can do is get the lube. Plus you’re closer.”

He remembered this game from when they were kids, when Grif wouldn’t want to get up to get something. Usually more snacks. Simmons reacted the way he did back then, rolling his eyes even as he pushed himself off of Grif’s lap and walked to his bedroom.

At least, he thought as he rummaged in his drawer, they’d decided on this before they were both naked. Simmons would _not_ have walked through the house in the nude with his dick hard. Being shirtless with his arousal straining against his pants wasn’t great, but it was better than that. He found what he was looking for, flushed all over again as he palmed the bottle and a condom, then hurried back out into the living room.

Where he promptly froze, two steps in, when he saw Grif was no longer wearing any clothes.

He felt Grif’s eyes on him as his own scanned Grif’s body, landing on a dick that was just as thick as the rest of Grif, and he shuddered as he thought of having that inside him. He didn’t realize how long he’d been standing there, staring, until Grif broke the silence.

“What did I tell you about staring like that,” Grif said, though he sounded kinda pleased. Maybe some of the hunger in Simmons had shown on his face. “This dick won't fuck itself.”

“Shut up! I didn’t expect you to be naked when I got back!” Simmons answered, too loudly, and yeah there was definitely a crack in his voice. Fucking hell.

“Why not? That’s the whole point, isn’t it?” Grif shrugged, leaning back against the couch as if it were nothing, as if he wasn’t sitting there with a cock so hard Simmons could hardly look away from it. Fucking _hell._ “Now are we doing this or not?”

“Of course we are!” Simmons forced himself to move, then, rather than follow his initial instinct to run back into his room and hide from how he’d been trying to devour Grif with his eyes, and how Grif had apparently seen him doing it. He set the lube and condom down on the coffee table, beside their empty mugs of coffee and his empty plate, and began working on the fastenings for his pants. He stilled when he felt Grif’s hands over his own.

“You’re too nervous, it’ll take forever. Let me do it.” It was a lie; he was nervous, yes, but Simmons’ fingers had been steady. He let Grif have it anyway, arms dropping to his sides as Grif undid his pants, dragged them and his briefs down his legs so that Simmons could step out of them.

Grif’s eyes raked up Simmons’ body and that damn blush spread all over him now, making him feel like every inch of skin left was reddening at the attention. He was reminded of their wedding, when Grif had given him a once-over, except this time Grif didn’t have some snarky comment to follow the look. Instead he took Simmons’ hand and tugged, bringing Simmons back into his lap. They both groaned at having the skin-to-skin contact, pressing together in every way they could. Simmons couldn’t keep himself from twitching his hips forward, gasping when he felt Grif rock against him in response.

“Shit, wait, Simmons, don’t--don’t get us off too quick.” Grif was trembling, voice strained. “Can you grab the--your arms are longer.”

Simmons didn’t even care that it was Grif basically saying _you’re closer_ again because he refused to let Grif move out from underneath him, so he leaned back and snatched the bottle and packet from the coffee table and held them out to Grif.

Who took the condom, and then...shook his head at the lube.

“You should do it,” Grif said. Simmons squinted, starting to get annoyed again. If Grif was going to back out of this with the excuse that it was too much work-- “My fingers are too thick, not long enough,” Grif continued.  “Yours are perfect, you should do it.”

 _Yours are perfect._ He was definitely not going to take that out of context and twist it into something romantic. Just gotta lock that sentence into the Repression Box real quick.

“You’re being an idiot,” Simmons said, shoving the lube at him. “I want you to do it, so do it. I can take it.”

Grif eyed him; then, finally, he nodded, taking the bottle. “Alright,” he said. “Just--don't complain later.”

Simmons had no plans to complain. It was the furthest thing from his mind as he leaned forward against Grif, resting his chin on Grif’s shoulder, practically quivering with want. He felt Grif’s ragged breath against his ear, and then Grif’s fingers on his ass, and then one of them _in_ his ass and he pressed back against the sensation with a moan.

“Damn, you, you really like this,” Grif said, that strange awe in his voice again as he worked his finger deeper. Simmons started to tense up, waiting for the snark, but it didn't come.

“Um,” he said, relaxing again. “Yeah. I do.”

“ _Fuck,_ ” Grif breathed, and added a second finger, maybe a little too quickly but it still felt good, still had Simmons’ shoulders jerking at the pleasure shooting up his spine. This was about as full as he'd ever been, though it usually took three of his fingers rather than two. He loved the way this felt, the loosening of his muscles through coaxing and scissoring, the careful curl of digits and press of fingertips.

Grif kept working him, more carefully now than Simmons would have thought he could. He groaned in disappointment when Grif eventually pulled his fingers free, then groaned again in a different way when Grif asked, “You ready?”

“Yeah.” Simmons said it against his throat, even chanced a little nibble to see how Grif reacted. The low sound Grif made in response was encouraging, as was the hurried ripping sound that came from Grif opening the condom. “Yeah, I'm ready.”

Grif only paused a moment to get the condom on before he was pushing in, and Simmons sucked in a breath at the new intrusion. It was wider than Grif’s fingers, and even though he'd obviously enjoyed those up his ass, he'd never had anything this big or even dick-shaped in there, and for some reason it felt...weird. Off. Not quite good, and Simmons squirmed a little.

Grif, apparently, thought it felt great, if his groan was any indication. He pulled out, almost all the way (there that was the weird feeling, that) before pushing back in. It didn't feel _bad_ , and Simmons wanted it, he just--

“I didn't think this would feel like taking a shit,” came out of his mouth.

Grif immediately froze, half inside Simmons, and he froze too. What. _What._

“Uh. What the fuck?” The pale skin on Grif’s face that had once belonged to Simmons was flushing, and not with pleasure. “Do you want me to stop…?”

What Simmons _wanted_ was to evaporate into thin air; what he didn't want was for Grif to stop. “No! No, no, I, I don’t, I'm just...getting used to it, I guess?”

“Seriously, if you don't like it we can do something else--”

“No,” Simmons said firmly, pushing himself down until Grif was completely inside him, thrilling at how Grif’s eyelids fluttered. “I want to do this. Keep going.”

“Okay,” Grif said, and any disbelief in his tone was overpowered by lust, and that thrilled him, too.

It gave Simmons an idea, as Grif slowly thrust up into him, still watching his face somewhat warily. He reached down to touch himself and the sensation of that, added to being fucked, started to make it feel good instead of weird. _Really_ good, in fact.

Then Grif shifted his angle and hit something inside Simmons that had him gasping, and oh yes okay this was what he'd been hoping it would feel like.

“Like that,” Simmons said, fingernails digging into Grif’s back. “Like-- _nnh_ like that, don't stop, Grif, give me more--”

“Holy shit,” Grif breathed. Simmons met his gaze, eyes half-lidded and mouth open on noises that Grif seemed to drive out of him with each thrust. Grif, meanwhile, was staring as if he'd never seen anything like this, pupils wide, hair messily falling over his shoulder. He looked so hot that Simmons made a noise in his throat and swooped in to kiss him.

While they pressed sloppy kisses to each other’s lips, Grif did as told, bucking up harder as Simmons rode him. Eventually they were moving too much to keep kissing, and Simmons let his head fall back, eyes closing as he whimpered and moaned and rocked in Grif’s lap.

“You're so good,” Grif said, voice breaking on the words. “Fuck, Simmons, it's so good, you're so, so-- _fuck_.”

Simmons would not have expected Grif to talk like that during sex. Did Grif talk like that every time? Was it just Simmons? He was going to have a lot more to repress once this was over and he could think straight, but right now, even the idea that this praise was solely inspired by Simmons had pleasure shooting through him, and he gave a little cry.

“Grif, Grif, yes, keep going, oh Dex _yes_ \--”

He felt Grif shudder underneath him, and then suddenly the world tilted. Surprise broke through and Simmons squawked in alarm as he was bodily lifted and then dropped onto his back on the couch, hands scrabbling at Grif’s shoulders, Grif somehow still inside him.

Simmons blinked up at Grif when he’d settled, Grif’s hair cascading down like a veil, tickling past Simmons’ cheek and locking his perception onto Grif and only Grif. It wasn't a bad place to be; Grif was flushed, both eyes dark and glittering, and the sight made Simmons’ breath catch in his chest.

“Hope you don't mind?” Grif asked, voice rough. Simmons found he couldn't speak so he simply shook his head. Grif grinned.

“Good.”

Grif pulled back onto his knees, which was disappointing. Simmons didn't have time to say anything, though, before Grif was grabbing him by the hips and beginning to thrust into him with a hard pace that bordered on bruising. It made Simmons cry out and arch, fingers digging into the arm of the couch as Grif panted and groaned above him. His right hip was certainly going to bruise - his skin type was prone to that - but he didn't care, because it felt good, too good, better than he'd ever imagined; he was only vaguely aware that he was chanting Grif’s name, a mixture of “ _Grif_ ” and “ _Dex_ ” with a few curses thrown in there.

“Simmons,” Grif was moaning. “Holy shit, Dick, you feel so fucking good--”

He'd barely reached down to touch himself when he came with a shout, body shuddering, face pressed into the crook of his own arm. Grif thrust through it, bottoming out inside him as after another minute he followed suit, groaning deep in his chest. Simmons whimpered to feel it, and when Grif flopped on top of him Simmons weakly wrapped his arms around him.

They stayed like that for a bit, panting and sweaty. Simmons was content to lie there until Grif’s weight started to become uncomfortable and his wits started to come back to him, making him realize they were probably stuck together by the jizz he'd gotten all over his stomach.

“Grif,” he mumbled. He felt Grif’s face against his neck, Grif’s warm breathing on his skin. “Grif, get up.”

“Ngh,” Grif grunted. Simmons frowned. Grif already sounded groggy. Was he falling asleep on Simmons?

“Grif,” Simmons repeated, pushing at Grif’s shoulder, “Get up. I need to clean myself off.”

“No, this is my nap time now,” Grif said, slurring somewhat. He was definitely half asleep, Simmons thought, anxiety rising. What if Grif fell asleep and Simmons got stuck here, naked, with come drying between them? The idea was horrifying.

“If you don't get off of me I'll push you off,” he said firmly, and Grif groaned before finally pushing himself up.

“You're such a jerk,” Grif grumbled, flopping in the other direction and curling on his side on the couch. Simmons rolled his eyes as he sat up and reached for his briefs.

“I refuse to have semen all over me,” he said, dragging on his underwear and pants, not bothering with his shirt. He only hesitated a moment by the couch, then quickly snatched the used condom off of Grif before he could lose his resolve, the knowledge that Grif would probably fall asleep with it still on overcoming his revulsion at having to do this for Grif. Holding it in front of him like it might become sentient and put up a struggle, he headed to the bathroom for a quick shower and disposal of the evidence.

He was glad for this decision when, beneath the water’s spray, he started to remember how loud he’d been, and his cheeks burned from more than the hot steam. Well. At least the neighbors weren’t _too_ close.

He pushed those thoughts away - too late to do anything about it now. He'd just have to be more quiet next time--

Simmons stopped himself, took a deep breath, let it out slowly. _Don't get your hopes up, Richard_ , said a voice in his head, the one that always sounded a lot like his father. Don't let yourself imagine this becoming a regular thing, don't let yourself think about how Grif praised you, or how he said your name, at the end of it.

It was when he stepped out of the shower that he noticed the soreness, wincing slightly at the dull ache deep inside him. It wasn’t terrible, mostly annoying, and also, he decided after some thought, kind of nice. The way things with Grif tended to be, these days. Another observation to be shoved down and ignored.

He came out shirtless and still toweling his hair off to see that Grif had, in fact, fallen asleep right there on the couch without putting any clothes on. Of course he had. Simmons sighed, made a mental note to clean the couch cushions later. He honestly was surprised at himself for not insisting they move to one of their beds, cheeks turning pink when he thought that he must have really, really wanted it, more than he cared about getting bodily fluid on the living room furniture.

Simmons brought out one of the hall closet blankets to pull over Grif, then set the towel he'd been using on the living room table for Grif to use when he woke. It was quick work to pull his shirt back on, pick up their abandoned dishes and deposit them in the sink, pick up Grif’s clothes from the floor so he could fold and put them beside the towel. When that was done, he stood beside the couch, watching Grif sleep for a few moments. He resisted bending down to kiss Grif’s forehead - it didn't mean anything, remember, having sex with his husband didn't mean anything, which was absolutely not the most ludicrous thought he'd ever had - but he couldn't resist brushing back a lock of Grif’s hair back from his forehead.

Grif didn't stir, though he did seem to give a little sigh. Simmons’ heart flipped in his chest, and he told himself he’d imagined it. Straightening, he retreated to his study, leaving Grif to his nap.

\- - -

When Simmons left the study later and Grif - clothed now - greeted him with a simple “‘Sup,” from the couch, the disappointment was immediate, and sharp.

Simmons told himself he was being stupid. What else had he expected Grif to do? Come up and kiss him hello? Of course not. He shot back a simple “Hey,” and went into the kitchen to make himself a sandwich.

The rest of the weekend passed as if nothing had happened, and Simmons wasn't sure if this was worse than if they'd had a drunken tryst instead of sex while completely sober. He forced himself not to think about it too much, to be grateful that he'd even gotten what he had.

He was resigned to this until Sunday night, after he'd made them slightly burned pork chops and was starting to rinse off the dishes before he put them into the dishwasher. Grif was hanging around in the kitchen, probably looking for snacks to take back to his room. Simmons didn't pay him any attention.

And then Grif was at his side, their arms touching.

“Thanks for dinner,” Grif said. Simmons looked at him, an eyebrow raised. It was only the second time Grif had ever thanked him for food, and within as many days.

Bemused, he said, “You're welcome.”

He was about to turn away when he felt Grif’s hand on his shoulder, followed by Grif getting up on his tiptoes to give Simmons a quick peck on the lips.

He was left there, stiff with shock, as Grif left the kitchen with a package of cookies and without another word. It took him a bit to recover, and as he finished up with the dishes he couldn't stop thinking of how his lips tingled in the wake of Grif’s kiss.

\- - -

By the time he went into work the next day, Simmons was exhausted. He'd spent the night before fading in and out of a fitful sleep, touching his own lips as he remembered Grif randomly kissing him in the kitchen. No matter how much he told himself not to fixate on it - they'd _fucked on the couch_ , for Christ's sake - his traitorous brain wouldn't listen. Trust Grif to take all of his carefully repressed feelings in the wake of that sex and toss them out into the open where Simmons had to acknowledge them again.

Simmons was still mentally sweeping them up when he heard a knocking at the wall of his cubicle. He purposefully stared a moment longer at his computer screen, a litany of _don’t let it be Donut, don’t let it be Donut_ , going through his mind, until he heard a chipper voice say, “Good morning, Simmons!”

Simmons let out a very long sigh. It was Donut.

“Good morning,” he said, monotonously, shoulders hunched forward, body turned slightly away from the opening to his cubicle. Donut ignored the blaring ‘Don't Talk To Me’ he was trying to project.

“Sooooo, you and Grif left the party pretty quickly last Friday~.”

“Wow, after you caught--after that? I wonder why.”

“Because you wanted more privacy, duh!” Simmons flushed, and in that moment hated his complexion more than he ever had for betraying him like this. Donut, of course, took it for the confirmation that it was. “The two of you are _so_ sweet, like something out of a fairy tale! I knew as soon as I saw you two at your wedding that Grif was going to love you so well--”

“Donut,” Simmons said, through gritted teeth. “Stop.”

“Don't be shy, Simmons! You're a perfect match, trust me on this. I used to worry you'd be alone until you were old, but now I know the two of you were _fated_ \--”

“Donut!” Simmons snarled, and it was enough to get him to stop, eyes wide, face pale. Unlike the wedding, Simmons didn't try to play it off; his lip was curled, a hard glint in his eye.

“You don't know fucking _anything_ . Grif isn't into me at all, and just like I told you, you know, at our _fucking wedding_ , he was forced into it.” Simmons turned back to his screen, shutting Donut out. “He doesn't want me like that and he never will.”

He shouldn't have had that little outburst, but he was tired, and he was _done_ with Donut saying shit like this all the time. He waited for Donut to leave with a sad expression that would wrack Simmons with guilt later. Instead, he felt Donut come closer, stiffening as Donut crouched beside his desk and rested a hand on his arm. Simmons didn't dare look at him directly; the sympathetic expression he glimpsed out of the corner of his eye was bad enough.

“Oh, Simmons,” Donut said, in a soft way that made Simmons want to punch him. “Is that really what you think?”

“I'm not doing this,” Simmons protested. Donut ignored him, gently squeezed his arm.

“He does care about you.” Donut just would not stop, and Simmons could feel how red his ears were. “I can tell. Why would he kiss you if he didn't?”

Simmons finally turned to face Donut fully in order to give him an incredulous stare. He wanted to think that Donut was screwing with him, except the compassion etched across Donut’s features was completely sincere. As if the past few days hadn't been fucked up enough.

“Because, Donut,” Simmons said slowly, like he was a small child,  “Kissing doesn't count for shit.”

Donut scoffed, waved it off. “That's not true! It counts for _everything._ ”

Simmons opened his mouth to say something about how Donut was being naive, then thought better of it. He wasn't having this argument anymore. He refused.

“Real life isn't like that, Donut.” Simmons said, peeling Donut’s hand off his arm, turning away to start typing. He was mid-report after all. “Things don't work out just because it would be romantic.”

Donut watched him for a few seconds, then stood abruptly. “Well!” he said, more sharply than Simmons was used to. He flinched in surprise. “Not with that attitude they don't!”

Donut finally left, then, and somehow Simmons thought it would have been better if he stayed. He almost wanted Donut to convince him he was wrong, that Donut did know Grif liked him, the same way Donut had known Simmons was in love with Grif. As he considered it, he started fiddling with the paneling on his cyborg arm, wanting to tinker with the mechanisms beneath; it was a habit he'd picked up in the wake of his surgery. He could've called Donut back, apologized, listened to Donut’s assertions about Grif’s true feelings.

He didn't. He hunkered down at his desk and got back to work. There was no point in calling Donut back; he wouldn't do himself any favors by letting Donut delude him into believing something that wasn't real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, you can find me on tumblr at blackgoliath and on pillowfort at bulkhead!
> 
> also: check out [this super awesome art ](https://venochu.tumblr.com/post/181830521473/this-worked-pretty-well-for-a-while-until-a-very) from chapter one!


	8. Caught in the Act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You were listening?” Simmons interrupted, voice cracking. Now it was Grif’s turn for his mouth to snap shut. Shit. _Shit shit shit shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I maybe got a switch for the holidays and fell into that for a week, oops. but hey we're back!
> 
> today's theme: everybody in Blood Gulch is kind of an asshole

Tucker waited until lunch to ambush Grif. He'd been expecting it as soon as he walked into the building, and was honestly surprised Tucker had been able to control himself that long; Grif could practically feel the guy vibrating across the office with the need to rib Grif about this. He would've preferred to get it over with as soon as possible, but at the same time, he enjoyed his quiet morning of doing as little as he possibly could without _completely_ foregoing his work.

It meant, too, that when Grif did walk into the breakroom, he was prepared for it when Tucker practically pounced on him.

Or started to, anyway. Grif had stopped in the doorway as Tucker jumped up from the table and came straight for him; a few steps away, he paused, and stared. Grif’s bored look slipped a little.

“What?” he asked, when the silent scrutiny continued. The sound of his voice seemed to snap Tucker out of it, though the way his face nearly split with a broad grin was worrying.

“Holy shit, I'd heard you and Simmons were playing tonsil hockey in one of the offices at the party,” Tucker said, “But I had _no idea_ the two of you actually _fucked!_ ”

He had been right to worry. Tucker always seemed to know when someone was fresh off of sex, something Grif had noticed even in his short time working here. He’d just never been on the receiving end of it.

And he didn’t want to be now, so he lied. “We didn’t fuck.”

“Like hell you didn't! You've got that glow about you, even if it was--” Tucker squinted, leaning closer, and Grif leaned back. “Two days ago?”

How in the hell. “Seriously, dude, we didn't fuck.”

“Don't lie to me, Griffy, I know a sated man when I see one.” Tucker was still grinning from ear to ear. “This means I win the pot. _Ha!_ Church is gonna eat his words!”

Grif wanted to be pissed that the office was betting on his romantic life - mostly because he hadn't been invited to join the pool - but. He honestly should have known this would happen, and besides, he didn’t regret having sex with Simmons. In fact, he really hoped it happened again. It had been really fucking hot, and he wanted to tattoo the image of Simmons perched in his lap, face flushed, eyes half-lidded as he demanded Grif to give him more, to the back of his eyelids.

Though...there was also Simmons under him, head thrown back and body arched while Grif took him hard. Both were such good memories, he couldn’t choose between them.

Well. He did have two sets of eyelids.

Making his way to his favorite chair, he flopped into it and put his feet up on the table while Tucker went on about how right he'd been in the background. Grif was doing his level best to ignore that when Church walked into the breakroom.

“Don’t let him act too smug,” Church said, amusement clear in his voice as he walked to the coffee maker. “He hasn’t told you yet who _he_ got caught fondling in a closet.”

Immediately Tucker’s little ‘I knew it’ celebration ended, and Grif looked up to see his cheeks darkening.

“You said you wouldn’t tell anyone!” he protested. Church leaned back against the counter, hiding his growing smirk behind his filled mug.

“It’s only fair, if you’re going to pick on Grif. Have you seen _him_ yet this morning, by the way?”

Grif didn’t even need to ask who Church was talking about; the way Tucker’s eyes flicked toward the head office, the way his dark skin was steadily growing darker as he flushed, made the answer very obvious. Grif couldn’t help his bark of laughter, which earned him a very sharp glare.

“I knew it!” Grif crowed, and now the murderous look was shot Church’s direction. “You finally went after Wash!”

“Keep your voice down!!” Tucker hissed, and Church laughed quietly into his coffee. “And I didn’t _go after_ him, we just, well--”

“He just pulled Washington into a closet, pinned him against the door, and kissed him senseless,” Church supplied in an airy voice. “Told me all about it in the cab ride home.”

Grif snorted so hard he nearly choked on the sandwich he was trying to eat, while Tucker tried to shove Church, only for Church to dance out of reach, wearing a shit-eating grin. Grif didn’t even care that Tucker had correctly guessed what he’d done with Simmons over the weekend; having the poorly-kept secret of Tucker’s crush on their boss confirmed was worth bearing the ribbing.

At least until Church turned back to him and said, “I still can’t believe you let Donut of all people catch you making out with Simmons.”

He didn’t even get a chance to answer; his mouth was full, and before he could swallow Tucker was recovering enough to say, “Oh, that’s not all he did. He _fucked_ that uptight redhead.” Grif rolled his eyes in the face of Tucker’s smirk. Someone was clearly glad to have the attention diverted away from him. “Honestly I’m kind of impressed.”

Church, meanwhile, was regarding Grif with interest, his eyebrows settled somewhere near his hairline. “Is that so? Is it true that redheads have red hair even down--”

“Do _not_ finish that question.”

Church gave him a wolfish grin. “I’m gonna take that as a yes.”

“You know what that means though, right?” Tucker said gleefully, all signs of his previous distress gone. “It means _I_ win the pot.”

“Whatever, you still macked on the boss,” Church replied. They settled into a sort of bantered discussion about just how much money Tucker had won and how much of it Church was trying to extort out of him to keep his tryst with Wash secret. Grif ignored it, focusing on his sandwich and the container of coleslaw he’d brought for lunch. He was just finishing up when Caboose walked in, which was a good thing because Tucker’s exclaimed, “Holy shit, Caboose, you got laid too?!” was definitely a sign that he needed to leave the room immediately. Church apparently had the same idea, and the two of them struggled momentarily as they reached the door at the same time and got wedged up against each other, until Church, swearing, launched himself free and made a beeline for his desk.

It was, Grif thought as he sat back down in front of his computer, not the worst way that could’ve gone. He’d thought Tucker’s know-it-all smugness would’ve been more annoying than it was, though Church had come in at the perfect time with the perfect distraction. If word got out that Tucker had been groping their boss at the holiday party, Grif’s status with Simmons would be yesterday’s news in a heartbeat. People loved a juicy tale of sordid affairs in the workplace. He’d just have to let it slip somehow...maybe to that chick in Accounting that Tucker was friends with. Yeah, that’s what he’d do on his way out of the office. That’d show Tucker to bet on him without letting him have a stake in the profit.

And since Tucker wasn’t _technically_ dating Washington, he wouldn’t get fired. Probably.

Eh, well, if he did, maybe he could get a better, less soul-sucking job. Or he could be a stay-at-home dad while Washington brought home the bacon.

The image of Tucker in a pink apron brandishing a fluffy feather duster and kissing Washington’s cheek when he came through the door had Grif stifling giggles behind a hand at random moments throughout the remainder of his shift, and made the work he had to do a little easier to bear.

\- - -

Tracking down Accounting Chick and subtly revealing Tucker’s party hookup took a little longer than he expected (she’d said her name was Jaskins or something; Grif didn’t really pay much attention after he planted the rumor seed) and so it was dark by the time he drove home. He was ravenous; lunch felt like it had been years ago instead of a few hours, and since Simmons had complained several times about how much takeout Grif was buying, he really hoped the asshole had dinner ready for him.

That was one of the nice things about being married to Simmons (beside the sex, if that kept happening): he cooked. He didn’t cook _well_ , and Grif often thought about giving him a lesson before deciding he’d done enough home cooking while Kai was growing up, but he cooked, and he cooked for both of them, so Grif didn’t have to lift a finger.

It was a pretty great setup, and the reason why Grif had kissed Simmons the night before. You know, as a thanks. Until Simmons got this really stunned look on his face that made Grif’s stomach do funny things, and he’d absconded from the room to lose himself in TV for a while.

Well, whatever. Maybe this time he could reward Simmons with sex instead. He was imagining bending Simmons over the kitchen counter as he pulled up to the house, his car slowing to a stop along the curb in front of it when he realized his spot in the driveway was already taken.

Fuck. Senior was here. There went all his plans.

He opened the front door as quietly as he possibly could, thinking that if he snuck inside he could get to his room without having to interact with the old bastard. He could hear the murmur of voices coming from the kitchen, and their cadence didn’t change when he closed the door softly behind and slipped out of his shoes and jacket. Good. They hadn’t heard him; if he moved quickly he just might make it yet.

Except he froze just before the kitchen archway when he heard Simmons Senior say, “I’m very disappointed in you, Richard.”

Oh hell. Now he was _definitely_ not gonna get any sex, or probably any homemade food. Simmons was going to be in a Mood for the rest of the night, and would likely hole up in his study moping for hours, if he didn’t punch another crack in their mirror. Despite knowing he should move on, Grif carefully pressed himself to the wall and kept listening. 

“I’ve been doing my best,” Simmons was saying, and there was an edge of a whine to it that made Grif wince. “It’s just, there haven’t been any openings in management lately. Once someone leaves, I’m sure I’ll be first in line on Carolina’s list for a promotion--”

“Are you making excuses?” Senior’s voice was so quiet that Grif almost didn’t hear it. He could imagine the slight _clink_ of Simmons’ teeth as his jaw snapped shut, however, so sudden was his silence. “I did not raise a man who makes excuses, Richard. I raised a man who gets the job done.”

“Yes, Father,” Simmons said softly, and Grif had the sudden urge to run in there and punch Senior right in his ugly face.

“Good. Now, I expect you to prove that to me within the next six months. When I die, the company is yours, and you’ll need to show me that you can handle the role, as well as leadership of Grif Corporation. We both know that husband of yours will be utterly useless as a CEO.”

Well. He wasn’t wrong. Grif expected to be about as good a CEO as his mother had been, which was to say, not very at all. That was why they had their board of directors make all the important decisions while she acted as a figurehead. It was basically what Grif had planned to do, too, and he had no problems with someone like Senior thinking he was useless. He’d purposefully cultivated this trait, in fact, in order to get out of doing as much work as possible.

So he wasn’t really bothered at what Senior probably thought was a scathing insult, which meant he was surprised when Simmons said, “Don’t talk about him like that.”

Senior must’ve been surprised, too, as there was a long, charged silence before he said, “Are you talking back to me?”

“He’s a lot smarter than he lets on,” Simmons continued, and _what in the everloving fuck was happening._ “I know if he applied himself, he could be a good CEO.”

Grif should’ve gone to his room, instead of standing here like a creep and listening in on this conversation. Clearly the sheer contact embarrassment of listening to Simmons grovel at his father’s feet was making him hallucinate, because there was no way Dick Simmons would ever call him _smart_ , let alone stand up for him against the man he feared most.

He was shocked enough that he missed the next bit of conversation, and when he tuned back in Senior was saying, “Remember: you have six months to begin proving to me that you deserve a place in my will, let alone the leadership of my company. I will not accept failure again, Richard.”

Simmons’ response was a mumble, too quiet for Grif to hear, and then came the sound that had his heart pounding: footsteps on the linoleum floor of the kitchen. They were coming toward him, and he had about five seconds to make it look like he hadn’t been eavesdropping for the past five minutes of their conversation. He nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to get back to the door, and when Senior rounded the corner he was holding his jacket toward the hook as if he’d just taken it off.

Senior stalled, the flick of his eyes over Grif disdaining and dismissive all at once. This guy was such a dickhead. “Dexter. I didn’t hear you come in.”

And Grif hated the way Senior said his name, like he was addressing a stray dog that had just wandered in. He realized, then, that this must be how Simmons felt all the time. Jesus, and he’d thought his family was fucked.

“I’m just stealthy like that.” Hanging up his jacket, Grif moved away from the door. “Been great to see you, Mr. Simmons, but I’ve got some chips with my name on them and I am starving.” He zipped around the man before he could say anything else, passing Simmons on his way into the kitchen. Simmons, who looked pale and closed off, exactly as Grif had predicted he would be. The urge to punch Senior returned.

This time the two knew they had an audience, and so while Grif rustled up something to eat their voices were nothing but a low murmur from the front hall. When he finally heard the front door close, signalling Senior’s departure, he hesitated halfway across the kitchen floor, bag of cheetos in his hands.

He should go to his room now and, despite what Simmons might say, order some takeout. Maybe some Hawaiian; there was an okay place near here that delivered, and sometimes he liked eating food that reminded him of when his mother used to cook for them, when he and Kai were really young. Not because his emotions were in a weird state of flux or anything and he wanted something comforting, that would be stupid.

He didn’t leave quickly enough; Simmons came into the kitchen, flesh hand fiddling with the paneling on his metal forearm, staring at the floor. Damnit, why did he have to look so fucking _sad_ . It made Grif want to give him a hug and shake him out of it at the same time. It would be so much better if he got pissed and stormed around the house, Grif would rather deal with that than, than _this._

Especially when Simmons said, “Sorry, I don’t think I’m going to be making dinner tonight. You can order something, if you want.”

“Uh. Sure, okay.” Grif fought with the top of the cheetos bag, which was suddenly very difficult to open. He kept standing there until he could finally get it open, and in all that time Simmons didn’t say a word. The awkward tension between them was so thick as to be nearly palpable; it only got worse when Grif, desperate to fill the growing silence, asked, “So, uh. How’s your dad?”

“Hm?” Simmons stopped in front of the fridge, where he’d been reaching for the freezer. Where the liquor was, Grif remembered. He must have thought Grif had already left the kitchen. “Oh, he’s, you know. Good.”

“Oh. Cool.” _Walk away, walk away Grif, let him wallow in peace_ \-- “Glad to hear it, though you know you really shouldn’t let him talk to you like that.”

It just slipped out, and Simmons froze with his hand on the freezer door handle. He remained facing away from Grif, and maybe that was why it all started coming out, why Grif started babbling like a thirteen year old asking out his first date.

“I’m serious, dude. He’s like. Kind of an asshole to you, all the time. Six months to get a promotion? What the fuck is that? Even if Carolina wanted to promote you - which she probably does, you’re like, the hardest worker in that department and we all know it - who knows when the next position will open? You can’t fill a position that’s already got somebody in it, and what does he think you’re gonna do, murder one of your bosses so you can take their job? He really needs to ease the fuck up and get over himself, he treats you like shit and I’m sick of watching it happen--”

“You were listening?” Simmons interrupted, voice cracking. Now it was Grif’s turn for his mouth to snap shut. Shit. _Shit shit shit shit._

There was another long, painful silence. Grif swallowed, forced himself to answer. “I, uh. I might’ve heard some of it.”

“You eavesdropped on my conversation with my father,” Simmons continued, and fuck, there was the anger, and why had Grif thought this would be better. At least the dejectedness had been directed at Senior. “You stood out there and listened to us talking, and you didn’t say anything, didn’t walk away. You _s_ _pied_ on us.”

“It wasn’t _spying!_ I just--so yeah, I probably should’ve said something, but he was being such a huge dick to you--”

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” Simmons whirled then, face flushed with rage, fists balled at his sides, and it was so startling Grif actually did as he was told. “You don’t--you don’t know fucking _anything_ , don’t fucking tell me how to talk to my own father! He knows what’s best for me, and when I fuck up, he’s right to tell me so! Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do _ever_ when you won’t do a goddamn thing by yourself! The only reason you even _have_ a job is because your mother got it for you, and honestly I’m surprised she cared enough to do that! Not everyone’s parent can be as absent as yours!”

Whoa, okay, that was too fucking far. He felt his own body tensing, shoulders straightening as he glared Simmons down, that rare venom in his veins that meant he was rightly, truly _pissed off._

“I don’t know anything?” Grif repeated, voice dangerously soft. “No, _you_ don’t know anything. You don’t know anything about me or my family, because I don’t get drunk and spill weird drama shit about them. You don’t know anything, because you never ask, because it’s always gotta be about _Simmons_ , about poor sad Simmons with his drunk for a mom and his uptight dickhead for a dad. So don’t fucking tell me what I know.”

Setting his cheetos aside, Grif advanced, and Simmons, caught off guard, backed up into the fridge, allowing Grif to get up in his face. “You sit there and you cry about how you want to impress your dear old daddy while all he does is verbally kick you in the dick. You think you’re so great? That your family’s better than me? Well guess what, I’m _smart_ _enough_ to know that your family’s a fucking dumpster fire and that your dad would sell you to the highest bidder if he thought he could get someone better to replace you. You think I don’t know anything? Yeah, my mom’s a ditz and my sister’s a flake, but I know they actually _love_ me. Do you, Simmons? Your mom’s gone, you never hear from her, and your dad treats you like a malfunctioning clone. ‘You have six months to begin proving you deserve a place in my will’? That doesn’t sound like a man who even _likes_ you, let alone cares about you or what’s best for you.”

Simmons was pale again, eyes wide, the anger drained from his face. Probably because it was all in Grif, now, like he’d somehow sucked it all out of Simmons, like some kind of emotions vampire. He never enjoyed being angry; it burned, a hot itch under his skin, a hardness in his gut that went completely against who he was.

It was why he never stayed angry long, and as he studied Simmons’ face he felt it leaving him until all that remained was emptiness. With a sigh, he pulled back, shook his head. 

“You know what? Fine. Do what you want. I’m not gonna bother if it’s just going to get thrown back in my face. It’s not worth it.”

Grabbing his cheetos, Grif retreated to his bedroom, already regretting what he’d said. How had his night turned so quickly from possibly getting in another good fuck with Simmons to this, this horrible guilt that ached in his chest as if he’d been shot. Simmons’ self esteem and mental state were fragile enough on a normal day; having his dad tear him down and then Grif rip him apart like that was probably going to break him. Grif groaned, flopping backward onto his bed, not even noticing that the action caused several cheetos to spill onto his blanket. It would be a lot easier if he didn’t care.

Why did he have to care? Caring was dumb and made you feel bad when you hurt someone’s feelings. Caring made him want to go back out there and tell Simmons he was sorry for what he’d said, even though that would be the _worst conversation ever_. He couldn’t deal with Simmons’ panic attacks right now, so instead he stayed in bed and after a little while called out for Hawaiian food.

When he went to the door to get his delivery, Simmons was nowhere to be seen, and the study door was shut. It was the exact outcome he’d expected. When had he come to know Simmons so well?

The food smelled amazing, when he got it, and the growl of his stomach helped him push down his curiosity and walk past the kitchen without checking to see if that bottle of brandy was still in the freezer. If Simmons wanted to get shitfaced, let him. He deserved it after a night like this, even if he’d probably be a nightmare at work tomorrow. Grif almost smiled at the thought of Donut dealing with a hungover Simmons until he remembered _why_ Simmons would be drinking alone in his study.

Damnit.

Eating helped, and Grif lay around for a while watching youtube videos on his phone and trying not to think about it. That only worked for so long, though, and eventually he shut off the app and rolled onto his back, staring at the dark ceiling above him. He’d have to apologize, and he knew it, and he hated that he knew it. Maybe he could write a note, leave it on the coffee maker for Simmons to find in the morning--

No. Simmons would hate him more if he did that, probably think Grif was mocking him. He’d have to do this in person, likely have to come up with some way to make sure Simmons knew he really meant it.

 _Ugh_ . Apologizing was the worst.  
  
\- - -

The mirror in the bathroom had a new crack in it the next morning. Grif wasn’t surprised, though he was surprised that he hadn’t heard it happen. Maybe Simmons had done it while Grif was still awake and watching youtube; he usually did that with his headphones in.

Grif followed the cracks with his eyes, leaning against the sink with both hands curled around the edges. Maybe he should get it fixed as a way to show Simmons he really was sorry. He’d have to google the right people to do it, then probably make the call at work where Simmons couldn’t overhear by chance - he scowled at his own reflection. That was going to be effort, and adulting, and he hated even the thought of it.

But. He stared at the cracks some more, traced the largest one carefully with his fingertip. Maybe if they got a new mirror, a nicer mirror, Simmons wouldn’t want to punch it anymore.

It was worth a shot. Grif pushed himself away from the sink, still grimacing at the knowledge of what he had to do, knowing that he really didn’t have a choice. Getting this over with would be easier than dealing with how cold Simmons could get when he wanted to be, in the long run.

And hey, if he was sincere enough, maybe they could have make-up sex.

Now that, _that_ would be worth the effort, and so he set off for work feeling slightly less shitty. He was going to put plan Just Fucking Apologize You Dipshit into action, Simmons would feel guilty enough to apologize back, and then he was going to fuck Simmons through the floor.

Yeah. He had this. No sweat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, you can find me on tumblr at blackgoliath and on pillowfort at bulkhead!
> 
> also: check out [this super awesome art ](https://venochu.tumblr.com/post/181830521473/this-worked-pretty-well-for-a-while-until-a-very) from chapter one!


	9. Forgiveness (Can You Imagine?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m busy!” Simmons called, the first words he’d spoken to his husband in days.
> 
> “Like hell you are,” came Grif’s muffled voice. “Let me in, we gotta talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is some referenced sexy in here but mostly this chapter is DRAMA. hence that there title.
> 
> Simmons just needs to get out of his own head 
> 
> today's theme: Grif did one thing once so no one can ever ask him to do anything again

Simmons hadn't cried in years, so when he first felt the sting of tears at the corner of his eye after locking himself in his study, he burned with shame. He was a grown ass man, he wasn't going to _cry_ because someone had said something mean to him, because his _feelings_ were hurt. Not even when that someone was Grif, and Simmons had really wanted to believe Donut, foolishly, ever since that conversation this morning.

He leaned back against the door of his study, flesh fingers clutched tightly around the neck of the brandy bottle, head tilted toward the ceiling as he furiously blinked back the tears. Yet even as he stood there, he couldn't help thinking: how could Grif have said that? How could he stand there and accuse Simmons of being unloved?

A traitorous drop slid from the corner of his right eye down his cheek. Grif wasn't - he was wrong. He didn't know anything, just like Simmons had told him.

But he was right, too, Simmons thought, and another few tears made tracks down his skin. He never stopped to ask Grif about Kai or his mother; he only ever talked about his own parents, when he was drunk (which he seemed to be much more often lately, falling into the same pit as his mother despite himself), and hoped Grif would follow suit. But of course Grif wouldn't unless purposefully asked, because he had to be difficult, had to make Simmons work for it, and that was _his_ fault, not Simmons’. He was always making Simmons do his work for him and that was on _him,_ that was _his_ bullshit.

As much as Simmons wanted to believe it, the words rang hollowly in his mind. No, he amended, miserably. It was his own fault. It was always his fault.

 _He's right,_ his father’s voice whispered. _I don't love you. And I won’t, until you prove that you're worthy of it._

When the first choked sob rocked him, Simmons pushed himself away from the door and staggered to his desk. Fuck. Why did he have to be such a worthless failure? He'd even ruined whatever friendship he might’ve had with Grif, driven him to the point where he'd become - whatever that was. Something terrifying, angrier than Simmons had ever seen him, even when he'd cleaned Grif’s room, yet still seeming almost unaffected as he looked right into Simmons and told him every dark truth about his family he'd pushed down for years.

When had Grif gotten to know him so well?

He flopped down into his desk chair, scrubbed at his face hard with his cybernetic hand. He didn't know how he was going to face Grif ever again, after this. How did you ever again look somebody in the eye who had completely exposed how pathetic you were?

And on top of that, there was his father’s demand, which Simmons had almost forgotten in all the drama that followed. Six months to get a promotion, or...or Simmons didn't know what. It wouldn't be pleasant, that was for sure. He couldn't imagine his father would _really_ take him out of the will, but. At the same time, the chances of Senior being serious about that were disturbingly high. If that happened, Senior would probably make a public thing of it, too, announce that he no longer had an heir, just so Simmons could know exactly how disgraced he was, how useless he was as a son--

Simmons pressed his face against the brandy, the coolness of its bottle a welcome feeling against his heated skin. He had to stop thinking about this right now, or he'd lock up and never be able to do what his father needed him to do.

So instead he got on his computer and pulled up something to watch that involved a lot of violence, then leaned back in his chair with his slippered feet up on the desk and the open brandy bottle held to his lips.

\- - -

He didn’t know what time it was when he stumbled into the bathroom, and he was too drunk to really try and map it out in his mind based off how long he’d been sitting at his computer. Whatever the time, it didn’t matter, because most of all it was Bedtime. He just needed a piss and a glass of water or two to chug before he fell asleep so that he wouldn’t be too hungover for work the next day.

He didn’t mean to punch the mirror. He’d been halfway through filling his water a second time when he looked up, caught his reflection. Saw how puffy his eyes still were from crying, how red his face was from drinking. His vision blurred, and next think he knew his fist - his right fist - was against the mirror, and smarting, and a new crack had joined the old one.

Last time he’d punched hard enough to bruise. This time, his knuckles had split under impact, a shock of pain rocketing up his arm. Even drunk it hurt, and he hissed as he put his hand in the sink to wash away the blood.

Grif was going to notice in the morning. Simmons let his forehead rest against the cracked mirror, tried to catch his breath. Would he bring it up again? Probably not; Grif definitely hated him now, so it was hard to see him checking in on Simmons’ well-being.

He might use it as a tool for insults, though. Simmons would have to be prepared for that.

He wrapped his hand in a bandage and chugged his second cup of water before staggering back to his bedroom. The brandy bottle was still in his study, something which he would deal with tomorrow. Right now he was going to pass the fuck out and have a few hours of being blissfully unaware of how much his hand and head and heart hurt.

\- - -

Whether or not Grif noticed or felt like bringing up the mirror, Simmons didn’t give him much of a chance. For the next few days he completely avoided Grif, grabbing food on the way home and immediately disappearing into his study until he heard the door to Grif’s bedroom closing. With their slightly staggered work schedules, this was easier than he’d thought it would be, and Grif certainly didn’t approach him. Which was good, he told himself. Maybe if he worked really hard, they could do this long enough that they’d become roommates who only gave a lackluster ‘hi’ when they saw each other and otherwise never interact.

It was a painful thought. He tacked it on to all of his other aches and went about his day.

The first surprise came on the holiday they had off from work. It was a two day affair, some sort of odd compromise between all of the holidays that took place around this season that honestly didn’t really serve any of them well, and one which Simmons was used to spending alone at home being lazy for once. This year, of course, Grif was in the house, and Grif had also apparently...replaced the bathroom mirror.

Simmons couldn’t find any other explanation for the untarnished reflection he saw in the bathroom that morning. There were no more cracks, no more evidence of how his rage had gotten the better of him. This was a _nice_ mirror too, with smudge-proof glass and some simple decoration at the corners. Unless someone had broken into their home in the middle of the night and decided to install a mirror, Grif had to have done it, and Simmons was having a very hard time wrapping his mind around this fact. What was the point? Another mockery of how pathetic Simmons was? Well, Simmons wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of reacting to it.

He retired to his study, intent on his quiet day alone, and he got it - for about an hour.

Simmons startled out of the creepypasta wiki spiral he’d been engaged in when there came a loud pounding at the study door. It had to be Grif, unless their house had sporadically manifested a ghost, but - what the fuck did he want?

“I’m busy!” Simmons called, the first words he’d spoken to his husband in days.

“Like hell you are,” came Grif’s muffled voice. “Let me in, we gotta talk.”

Oh, no. No, no no, he did not want to talk to Grif right now. Especially when Grif was going out of his way for it, which meant it was something serious, and fuck no he was not doing this.

“Maybe later, I’m very busy!” Desperately, he tried to think of the most boring thing he could be doing that would make Grif leave him alone, and finally landed on: “I’m doing my taxes!”

There was silence, and after a tense moment, Simmons let out a relieved sigh. Whatever impulse had overtaken Grif to have a talk would leave him quickly, as his ‘I might put in some effort for once’ thoughts generally did, in Simmons’ experience, which meant the matter would be dropped and they could keep putting it off for...the rest of his life, if possible.

And then he heard a soft _click_ , and the door swung open, with Grif standing triumphantly in the doorway.

“Yeah,” Grif said to Simmons’ shocked look, putting a small pick away, “Kai used to think she could hide from me in her room, too.”

“You can _pick locks?_ Also, what the fuck do you think you’re doing!” Simmons was approaching shrill, which actually made him feel slightly less terrified of how Grif was walking into the room, as shrill tended to be his default mode around Grif’s ridiculous behaviors. It let him almost pretend this was going to be a normal argument instead of excruciating.

“I told you, we gotta talk.” Grif hauled himself up onto Simmons’ desk, perching on the edge and ignoring all of Simmons’ spluttered protests. “As much as I’d like to not deal with this ever, we live together, and I’m pretty sure your dad would straight up assassinate you if we divorced, and I’m already tired of this weird awkward shit we’ve got going. So. We gotta talk.”

Simmons couldn’t look Grif in the eyes, instead purposefully staring down at his keyboard. “Fine. We’ll talk.” Since Grif apparently wasn’t going to let it go.

A beat, and then he asked, “Are you going to tell me why you replaced the mirror?”

“I was gonna ask if you’d noticed. Sometimes you’re observant, but most of the time you’re too caught up in your own shit to see anything.” Simmons winced, and wondered if he imagined how Grif sighed.

“Yeah, I replaced it,” Grif continued. “This one’s pretty nice, and was way too fucking expensive for some dumb mirror. Plus I had to put it in myself, and if you fuck it up, I’ll kick your ass.” He stopped, rubbed at the back of his neck, while Simmons found himself speechless. “So don’t--if you feel like hitting it, knock on my door. We can watch stupid cat videos or something until you feel less like breaking things.” His gaze dropped to Simmons’ hand, which still bore bandages.

Simmons didn’t quite notice, too wrapped up in Grif’s words. Wait. Was Grif saying…?  

“Are you high?” Simmons asked, and Grif actually snorted.

“No, dickhead. I’m apologizing, for--I shouldn’t have said that shit.”

The world tilted. None of this made sense; first Grif had said Simmons should come to him when he was upset, despite the fact that Grif _obviously_ hated him, and now Grif was apologizing? He was pretty sure the latter was impossible, and therefore he must be dreaming. Or, more accurately, having a nightmare, one in which things seemed to be going well for him only for him to wake up and realize that no, none of it was real.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Grif said, dragging Simmons out of his reverie, “Where you stare at me like I just shit on the rug.”

“I am not,” Simmons snapped immediately, though he knew he probably had been. “I’m just--I don’t understand what’s happening here.”

“Don’t make me say it again, dude.”

“I’m finding it hard to believe you’re saying it in the first place!” But he was, and no matter how many times Simmons blinked or pinched his own leg under the desk, Grif wasn’t going away. This was real, it was really happening, Grif was apologizing for how he’d hurt Simmons.

He felt like he’d entered an alternate universe.

“Then I guess…” Simmons hesitated, while Grif just sat there, arms crossed, waiting expectantly. Once again he was inspiring contesting emotions in Simmons: gratitude, and irritation. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have said that about your mom.”

“You’re damn right you shouldn’t have.” Grif sounded oddly pleased, and Simmons squinted at him. “Though I still think your dad is a dick.”

There it was: the catch. Simmons had been expecting it, and he puffed up, sitting straighter in his chair. “I thought you came here to _apologize_ , not insult my family more!”

“I did, but I won’t say sorry for telling you that he treats you like shit.”

“Oh, I get it,” Simmons said, jaw tight. If he clenched his teeth any tighter he might break one of them. “You're ‘apologizing’ so you can insult me more, that it?”

“No, I--Jesus, Simmons, can't you trust that everyone isn't out to get you for like, five fucking minutes?” Grif twisted, putting a good chunk of thigh on the desk, and Simmons swallowed down a complaint. “Your dad just fucking sucks, and considering mine up and vanished when I was a kid, I know how to tell when a guy is shitty to his family. I won't apologize for pointing out that Senior is a _real fucking asshole_ to you.”

Simmons’ mouth opened to tell Grif why he was wrong, and nothing came. The way Grif was looking at him - the certainty in his usual blank look - made anything Simmons could say die in his throat. Senior was his _father,_ he couldn't let Grif talk about him like that, and yet.

And yet, Simmons sighed, rubbed at his face with his flesh hand. Eventually, he said quietly, “I didn't know that about your dad.”

“I don't exactly like to talk about it.” When Simmons looked up again, Grif was still studying him in a way that made Simmons feel like he was a sample under a microscope. Then Grif stood, yawning and stretching his arms above his head before scratching at his stomach. It was so cartoonish that Simmons had to hide a giggle behind a fake cough.

“Now that we've got that shit done,” Grif said, oblivious to Simmons’ mirth, “Can we do something fun instead of talking about feelings like we're at girl scout summer camp?”

“You started it,” Simmons said, like a thirteen year old girl would. “What, you want to watch X-Files or something?”

“No,” Grif answered, and gave him a look that had heat pooling in Simmons’ belly. Oh. _Oh._

He'd told himself they'd never have sex again, even before the fight. It was too much to hope that Grif would want him enough to make it a regular thing. But the way Grif was looking at him right now could hardly be interpreted as innocent, and Simmons felt his face warming.

“Really?” he forced himself to say, immediately regretting it when his voice cracked in the middle. “You break into my study to tell me my dad still sucks and now you want to fuck?”

Grif shrugged. “Yeah, pretty much.”

He stood there, waiting for Simmons’ answer, and it made him squirmy. They'd barely made up from the fight, what did Grif expect from him!

“Can we watch a movie?” Simmons blurted, awkwardly. He wanted to have more sex with Grif, this was just...not the right atmosphere for it. Grif, to his credit, didn't argue; instead he shrugged again. Simmons felt a weight slide from his shoulders, part of the heaviness he'd been carrying since his father’s visit now gone.

“Sure,” Grif said. “You ever see Big Trouble in Little China?”

\- - -

Simmons’ answer didn't really matter, because halfway through the movie Grif put his hand on Simmons’ thigh and he completely stopped paying attention, the sudden awakening of his libido surprising when he’d said no to fucking in the first place. Apparently he’d just needed a little more time, and also the feeling of Grif’s tongue slipping between his lips when Grif turned to kiss him.

He still wasn't up for going as far as they had the first time, at least, which Grif must have intuited because he didn't even ask. Having Grif lean over and suck him off was just as good, anyway, and the rest of his brainpower went into trying to hold back his moans.

It wasn't how he'd expected the day to go. After they were done, after Simmons had jerked Grif off and cleaned his hands and flumped against Grif’s side on the couch, he wondered dazedly how this had happened. He'd been so prepared to stay in his study all day, alone, and yet now he was here and sated and enjoying the soft warmth of Grif beside him.

He tilted his head on Grif’s shoulder to get a better look at his face. He was asleep, of course; orgasms seemed to work like fast-acting sleeping pills when it came to Grif. He slept surprisingly quietly, breathing softly through his nose, and Simmons watched him for a few moments before gently shifting up and kissing his cheek.

Grif didn't do anything, as he was sleeping, which was good because it left Simmons to be embarrassed at himself without witnesses. God, he needed to stop being so fucking gay for this guy.

Donut’s words came back to him for the first time in days, and Simmons furiously didn't let himself think they might be true. Hoping for something he couldn't have would only lead to disaster, even if Grif seemed fine with continuing their sex life for now.

But that didn't _mean_ anything. Donut’s ideas of what kisses meant was just stupid.

As he convinced himself of this, he started to get up to get himself some water. He was half-standing when Grif’s hand shot out and caught his wrist, startling him so badly he bashed his shin on the living room table.

While he hissed through gritted teeth at the pain exploding along his leg, Grif said, “Wait. Gotta give you somethin’.”

While Simmons stood there, the agony in his shin subsiding to a dull ache, Grif fumbled for something in his pocket. If he hadn't been moving, Simmons would have thought he was still asleep, as he apparently refused to open his eyes. Eventually he withdrew one of those tiny datapads that were all the rage now, barely two thirds the size of Simmons’ palm, and held it out.

“Looked these up for you,” Grif said, eyes still closed, as Simmons carefully took it.

Powering the device on revealed a list. Simmons scrolled down it, found that everything on it related to engineering somehow, classes upon classes that were hosted everywhere from the nearest university to the library in the center of town. They were all mechanical or electric engineering in nature, and Simmons found that his grip on the datapad was slightly shaking.

“What, uh. What's this for?” he asked, trying to emulate Grif’s usual flat tone. It didn't work.

“Because you like that shit, idiot. I see you playing with your arm all the time, and Donut told me you were going for a doctorate.” Grif cracked one eye open - the green one, Simmons’ old one - and smirked. “If you follow through with it you can be not-a-doctor like Doc.”

Simmons wanted to be irritated at the mockery, except he had this list of classes in his hands. Even his cursory look showed that Grif had put some effort into it, which was so unlike him that Simmons again felt like he'd entered an alternate universe.

“Thank you,” Simmons said, sincerely, and Grif looked at him with that one open eye, and they stared at each other for a long moment until Simmons, uncomfortable with the intensity of it, blurted, “I didn't think you'd notice.”

“Obviously I noticed. I fucking live with you, dude.” Grif opened both eyes then and pushed himself up off the couch to stand in front of Simmons. “Not everybody has their head shoved as far up their ass as you do.”

“I don't--!” Simmons began to protest, only to be cut off when Grif kissed him. He would have been angry about Grif doing this after having Simmons’ dick in his mouth if he wasn't so busy melting into it. When Grif pulled away, he leaned after the contact before catching himself and standing straight.

“Thanks,” he said, again, more softly. “I--thanks.”

“Don't get too soft on me, Dick,” Grif said, and grinned as he stepped out of range when Simmons tried to swipe at him. The tight feeling in his chest began to ease, and he even managed a laugh.

“God, now you sound like Donut.”

Standing near the hall, Grif schooled his expression into seriousness. “Never say that to me again.”

“Don't talk like him and I won't!” Simmons couldn't help his own grin as Grif retreated with a, “I'm nothing like him!”, leaving Simmons alone in the living room with the list of classes for an occupation he'd wanted since he was young. Slowly, he sat down on the couch and reviewed it again, highlighting the ones that caught his interest most and mentally planning out his schedule to accommodate them. He'd have to plan around work and physical therapy, but it wasn't like he did anything else during his time off, so he did have some time---

As he was doing this, Grif poked his head back into the room to inform him that he shouldn't cook anything because Grif was ordering Chinese, and Simmons found himself smiling.

\- - -

Grif, for some reason, accompanied Simmons to his first class.

It was held at the local university and was open to anyone, as long as they paid a fee, and Simmons had saved for a few weeks in order to attend. He was extremely surprised when Grif appeared at his side to say he was coming too as Simmons prepared to leave the house.

Especially since about five minutes into the class Grif fell asleep. Not that it really mattered, as Grif wasn't there to learn anything the way Simmons was, but he still wondered as to why Grif would come at all when he didn't give a shit about this subject and was missing out on everything by using the time to nap.

Partway through the class and his confusion Simmons noticed that Caboose was there, too. He was coincidentally close enough to talk, and when asked during a break why he was there he said he wanted to build himself a girlfriend.

After the class ended and Simmons shook Grif awake, they left together, purposefully shielding themselves from Caboose’s view to avoid further conversation. It wasn't until they were outside that Simmons turned to Grif with the intention of thanking him and instead said, “If you were going to nap the whole time you could've just stayed home.”

“And not make sure you actually came? No way man.” Grif reached into his pocket, withdrew a pack of cigarettes, and whined when Simmons automatically knocked them out of his hand.

“What the fuck, dude!”

“Stop poisoning my lungs,” Simmons replied. It felt good to banter, in a way he didn't let himself acknowledge.

They argued all the way back home, in that way that was arguing and yet wasn't at all, Simmons driving while Grif took shotgun. It was companionable, and comfortable, and Simmons for once let himself sink into the warm domesticity of it - mostly because Grif would point out rigidity. He wouldn't let himself get caught up in any thoughts about _feelings_ , of course, but he could unclench for a bit.

And when he stepped through the front door and Grif leaned against him, acting like he was too tired to walk, he grunted and dragged Grif to the couch and loved him anyway, because he was fucking doomed no matter what he did. 

He was always going to love Grif. He knew that now, watching Grif sprawl and reach for the remote. There was no escape from it. He was in this feeling for life. 

"Are you gonna stand there forever or sit down?" Grif asked. "You're doing that creepy staring again."

Simmons was going to love Grif forever, but as he rolled his eyes and sat on the couch, he wasn't sure how he'd ever like him.


	10. No, Dad, That's YOUR Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Which party do you think sucks more?” he asked, nicking a weenie from Grif's plate despite how Grif pouted. “That one, or this one?”
> 
> “This one, definitely. At least we could sneak out of that one and do something fun.”
> 
> “We went to a cheap diner and you stuffed your face and made me pay the check.”
> 
> “Exactly!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter kind of fought me so I am DONE WITH IT here yall go
> 
> enjoy a living Allison because got damn it you never see her and I needed that family awkwardness. I couldn't find a canon maiden name for her so I slapped a random one on there
> 
> today's theme: oh god the gay thoughts are catching up RUN FASTER

Grif didn't go with Simmons to any more classes after the first, but considering that it would have amounted to him paying for a nap, that was probably for the best. He did run into Caboose a couple more times, and even Tex, once, who apparently was taking this “as a refresher course”. That was an unsurprisingly more pleasant conversation than Caboose giving spontaneous updates on the robot girlfriend he was building. Simmons wondered if that counted as non-consensual on the robot's part and then decided that Caboose building himself a sex robot was the last thing he wanted to dedicate brainspace to.

Two months passed, and Simmons found he was happier than he'd been in...well, ever. He loved the classes, took out a loan so he could keep going, and things with Grif were shockingly good. They still fought, because Grif was an unapologetic slob who enjoyed driving Simmons up the wall, but they were having sex on the regular, and hung out a lot, and it almost seemed like Grif enjoyed being around him. 

They didn't bring up how they were actually starting to act like a married couple, of course. After coming to apologize Grif returned to his ways of refusing to communicate about anything serious and that suited Simmons just fine. Even if he’d been the type to talk things out he wouldn't, too afraid that saying it aloud would break the arrangement they had, that drawing attention to it would ruin everything.

Though the first time he started spiraling and thought about punching his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he looked at it and remembered how Grif had actually done the work to install it, and he left the bathroom.

He knew Grif was home; he'd been busy with some work in his study, so they hadn't hung out that night, but he'd heard Grif moving around after he got back from work. He hovered outside the closed door of Grif's room for several minutes, wondering if Grif had meant what he'd said in his apology, fist raised and ready to knock.

Eventually he rapped his knuckles lightly on the door and then dropped his hand, ears burning.

“Come in,” he heard from inside, because why would Grif get up to open his own fucking door. Simmons did as told, and then stood in the doorway, still hesitant.

Grif was sprawled on his bed with a datapad propped against a pillow playing something Simmons couldn't quite see, hand deep in a bag of cheddar popcorn.

“What's up,” he said, around a mouthful. His room was trashed, and Simmons tried not to look around too much lest the mess give him a stroke.

“I, uh.” He cleared his throat, flicked his eyes away when he saw Grif actually look at him. “You got any good cat videos…?”

He wasn't sure if Grif would understand what he was implying, and if not he was fully prepared to leave rather than try to explain. However, instead of looking at him like he was insane or insulting him, Grif scootched back on his bed, leaving enough room for Simmons between him and the datapad he'd been watching.

“I got a whole fucking playlist, dude,” Grif said as Simmons cautiously came closer, eventually crawling onto the bed and easing himself onto his side. Now he could see that Grif had been watching comedy specials, lip curving unintentionally when he saw it was one of the old greats. John Mulaney had been dead for centuries, but man did his jokes hold up even now. 

“Just gotta hit the app,” Grif continued, pressing up behind him, throwing an arm over his side in order to reach the datapad screen. It felt nice in a way Simmons tried not to think too hard about and therefore obsessed over immediately. This could be how things were, if they shared a bed, after having sex in one or even just lying together for sleep, Grif curled around him and Simmons lying contentedly in his arms. 

The problem was that he had found himself reluctant to have sex in one of their beds, despite his neat freak tendencies, because it felt too intimate. The couch had become their go to - and, once, the kitchen, in what had been an extremely hot and later horrifyingly unsanitary instance - because it felt more casual then, and Simmons usually got up to clean himself off while Grif napped. It was the only way he could keep himself sane. 

“Are you even listening to me?” Grif asked, and Simmons startled, suddenly realizing Grif had been trying to talk to him for the past minute.

“Um, sorry.” He swallowed, shifted enough to see Grif’s face out of the corner of his eye. He was very close, chin resting on Simmons’ shoulder, and Simmons had to stop trying to look so he didn't make himself cross-eyed. “What were you saying?”

“I was  _ saying  _ that you could decide on the first one, but you weren't listening, so you've lost your choosing privileges.” Grif touched the screen, picking a video at random. While the ad played, he grabbed Simmons’ chin, swallowing the surprised noise he made by bringing their lips together in a firm kiss.

“What did I tell you about pulling your head out of your ass,” Grif said when he drew back, and the warmth swelling in Simmons’ chest was thankfully tempered before he did something embarrassing like nuzzle against Grif's cheek.

“Shut up,” he said, turning back to the datapad, Grif's arm wrapped snugly around him. “I wanna watch this.”

\- - -

As Simmons had predicted, no positions opened up in management during those months, and by the time another Business Party was on the table he was a nervous wreck. He hadn't made any headway with Senior's task of him, and to make it worse he learned that neither Ailani nor Sarge were attending, which meant he wouldn't have soft hugs or kinda-compliments to fall back on when it got too much.

Grif was invited, though, so at least he wouldn't be completely alone.

“Do you think we can spontaneously develop invisibility powers?” Grif asked as they pulled up to the mansion, one of several his father owned on this planet. There were already plenty of people there, and his father's valets were busy taking cars to the private lot he had in the back. “Like, we can pull a Sue Storm and just not be visible so we don't have to talk to anybody?”

“We'd have to be naked to be completely invisible,” Simmons said, and Grif’s snort chased away some of his nerves. “Also, no, I don't think that's possible.”

“Damnit.”

They walked in together, Grif sticking close to his side, which Simmons was thankful for. Not that he was expecting to be immediately swarmed by his father's business associates; he more wanted Grif there as support when Senior eventually materialized to talk to them. Until then, they were free to do what they wanted, and what Simmons wanted was to hide in a corner--

He felt a nudge, and glanced down at Grif, who said, “Hey. Buffet's over there.”

Well. It wasn't his first choice, but Grif was already dragging him along by the sleeve and nothing he could say would stop him. Food was the only force in the universe that could consistently get Grif to put in effort. 

Once Grif had his plate filled, it was Simmons’ turn to steer him off to the side somewhere that they wouldn't constantly be seen by guests grabbing snacks. Grif whined around a mouthful whenever they got too far from the buffet table, so Simmons compromised by keeping them within sight yet in a spot along the wall that was still pretty out of the way. He scanned the crowds, twisting his hands, not wanting to see his father and yet finding himself straining for glimpses regardless.

“Kinda brings back memories, huh?” Grif asked. When Simmons glanced at him, brows knit, he found Grif sucking juice off his fingers in a way that was very unfair when Simmons wasn't allowed to do it for him.

“Memories of what?”

“That first party, after I moved back. Remember? When we ditched?”

It came back in an instant; Simmons, hiding by the wall with a glass of wine he wasn't supposed to have but had taken anyway, Grif coming up out of nowhere and telling him the party sucked. Thinking of it now made him smile, posture relaxing some.

“Which party do you think sucks more?” he asked, nicking a weenie from Grif's plate despite how Grif pouted. “That one, or this one?”

“This one, definitely. At least we could sneak out of that one and do something fun.”

“We went to a cheap diner and you stuffed your face and made me pay the check.”

“Exactly!”

Simmons rolled his eyes. “A year with you should not make that surprising to learn, and yet.”

“It's better than  _ cleaning  _ for fun.”

“Well I'm sorry if not all of us enjoy sitting on our ass in our own filth!”

“Excuse me?” came a polite, slightly startled voice. Both of them looked up to see a woman in front of them, gray curls pinned upon her head in an elaborate swirl. She wore a navy dress that accentuated her curves, which were well kept for an older woman, and Simmons had the sense that she was familiar somehow, a feeling that made his stomach sink. If she was familiar, that meant she knew his father, and probably wanted to mingle with the Simmons Heir.

Mingling was Simmons’ least favorite activity, right after finding Grif's slimy socks left forgotten on the laundry room floor.

“Are you Richard?” the woman continued, and Simmons nodded. He tried a side glance at Grif only to see that the space beside him was now conspicuously empty. Cowardly bastard.

Then again, Simmons considered, wasn't this better than having the man everyone knew was his husband standing there spewing crumbs as he spoke?

“I'm Ms. Sanders,” the woman said, holding out her hand for him to shake, which was not what he expected. She had a firm grip, too, and he was a little intimidated even as she added, “But you can call me Allison.”

“It’s, it's nice to meet you, Ms.---Allison.” Simmons took his hand back, frantically trying to place where he'd heard the name ‘Sanders’ before.

Allison didn't make him guess. “You work with my Carolina, don’t you? Have you spoken with her recently? She's always so busy, I don’t get to see her very much.”

Sanders.  _ Carolina Sanders _ , because Carolina had kept her maiden name even after marrying York. This was her mother. Holy  _ shit. _

“She’s, um, she's doing well,” Simmons answered, voice cracking. “If you want me to pass on a message--”

“Could you? I'd really appreciate it.” If you didn't pay attention to how it was said, that would have sounded sincerely grateful. Instead, there was a steely undertone to it that Simmons couldn't miss, one that insinuated he didn't exactly have a choice. Now that he knew who this was, it reminded him of Carolina in ways that made him very uncomfortable.

“Um, of course,” he said as she passed him a small datapad. “It was nice to meet--”

“And your husband, the chubby fellow with the orange tie, he works with my Lenny, doesn't he?” Allison bowled on as if he hadn't spoken. Simmons spent another moment trying to figure out who ‘Lenny’ could be.

Lenny, Lenny, Lenny was short for Leonard, and the only Leonard he knew was--

“You mean  _ Church? _ ” he blurted, the first time he'd said anything without stammering this entire conversation. Allison's brows formed a slight pinch between them, and Simmons stiffened, suddenly feeling very much in danger.

“Please, if you must, call him Leonard. I understand he's not overly fond of Lenny, but do  _ not  _ refer to him using  _ that man's _ name in my presence.”

“Of, of course, ma'am, Allison. Sorry.”

He tucked the datapad in his suit jacket, mind buzzing while Allison took a moment to drink from her wine glass. He desperately wished he had some of that right now, because he’d just met Carolina's  _ mother _ , had some sense that there was some Family Drama there if Allison had approached a random stranger to deliver a message, and oh yeah, Carolina and Church were apparently siblings?

And wasn't that security guard Church was into actually named Allison too? He’d heard some intern got his ass kicked for using that instead of Tex for her once.

What in the actual fuck?

Grif, apparently sensing his distress (or else having temporarily lost his self-preservation instincts) reappeared at that moment, his plate refilled. He probably thought the conversation was ending.

“Dexter, isn't it?” asked Allison, and Grif glanced at Simmons before looking up blankly from his food. 

“Yeah?”

Allison introduced herself once more while Simmons let himself enjoy being free of her scrutiny. Grif, meanwhile, continued to appear bored as she talked until she produced another datapad, this one for ‘Lenny’. Only then did his eyes widen a fraction; Simmons wasn't sure if Allison noticed, but Simmons had learned to recognize that understated look of interest when he saw it.

“Thank you both for this,” Allison said, smiling much more warmly now. “And please make sure to deliver those.” There was an unstated  _ I'll know if you don’t _ that had Simmons on edge again, and he didn't relax until, without another word, she disappeared back into the throng.

“Uh, what the hell just happened?” Grif asked, datapad in one hand and food in the other.

“I think Carolina and Church's mom want us to get in touch with her kids for her.” The datapad he’d been given seemed like a hot weight in his jacket's inner pocket.

He stopped, then, and looked at Grif, who was looking back. Simmons’ lip twitched, and when Grif hissed, “ _ Lenny, _ ” the dam broke and they burst into laughter.

That lifted Simmons’ spirits, and he spent a good amount of time picking food off of Grif’s plate and eating it with a grin until Grif grabbed a fork off of a passing server’s plate and stabbed him in the arm. He’d never thought a fork could hurt before now, but damn did that fucker sting.

“That’s what you get,” Grif grumbled.

Eventually, after Simmons had carefully extracted the utensil from his skin and disposed of it, Grif’s supply of food was low enough that he went on another buffet run. This left Simmons alone, sipping his recently acquired wine, waiting for Grif’s return. 

Of course, this was the time when Senior chose to pounce.

“Richard.” The familiar voice had Simmons freezing in place, fingers tightening unconsciously around his glass. Simmons Senior moved into his line of vision, and the way those dark eyes - so different from the green Simmons got from his mother - flicked from the wine to Simmons’ face had his cheeks reddening.

“Father,” Simmons replied, somehow managing to sound calmer than he felt.

“I see you were speaking with Ms. Sanders,” Senior said, while Simmons wondered how subtly he could dump his wine into the nearest plant. “You know, she and Leonard Church may be...estranged, but perhaps you could ask her to introduce the two of you. Dr. Church is a very highly respected man in his field.”

Simmons thought of how Allison had reacted when he’d said the name ‘Church’. “I’m not sure that would work.”

Senior looked at him expectantly, and Simmons tacked on a hasty, “Sir.”

“Well. I trust that whatever business she had with you will aid you in convincing her daughter of your worth.” Senior’s gaze again dropped to the wine glass, and Simmons had the sudden urge to throw its contents in his father’s face. “Seeing as you’ve yet to secure a management position.”

And there it was, the subject he’d been dreading. Somehow, Simmons ignored the glances enough to drain his glass before he spoke.

“A position hasn’t opened yet,” he said, neatly setting the empty glass on the tray of a passing server. He’d gotten good at that, over the years. “They can’t just create a new position for me--”

“Are you certain of that?” Senior asked, cutting him off. “This company values innovation, Richard. Create the opportunity you need, rather than waiting for it to come to you. I’ve told you this before.” 

He had, and it was an old line that Simmons, at this point, was really fucking sick of. ‘Create the opportunity you need’? As if the world worked like that. Just because one guy might get lucky once in a while and pull himself up by the bootstraps didn’t mean everyone else could do it, didn’t mean everyone else could find that crack in the system and exploit it, working hard and getting rich was a fantasy that succeeded more often in books than it ever did in real life and anyone who believed otherwise was kidding themselves--

Senior was giving him a very odd look, something Simmons had never seen on his father before. It was almost like... surprise. Shock. That look - the slightly widened eyes, the parted lips - had Simmons realizing, with dawning horror, that he’d just said all of those things  _ out loud. _

What was wrong with him. He hadn’t had that much wine, only a glass; he wasn’t drunk. What was he  _ doing? _

“I, uh,” he stammered, trying to recover. “I, well--”

“Those sound like excuses,” Senior said, bouncing back more quickly while Simmons floundered. “I did not raise a man who made--”

\--okay, no, if he had to hear that one more fucking time he'd lose it--

“Excuses, I get it! Jesus, Dad, can you get off my ass for once?”

Again, Senior stiffened in shock, but this time Simmons didn't follow suit. Something was different; he was angry, as he usually was when his father talked to him like this, but for the first time it wasn't buried beneath his fear and need to please. Maybe he was just too pissed this time. Maybe it was that he could feel eyes on him and he refused to grovel in front of an audience.

“I can't force a promotion,” Simmons went on, before he lost his nerve. “That's not an excuse, it’s reality. It takes years to work your way up when you're not just handed the role. You know, like  _ you  _ were.”

Senior's face was starting to turn red, something Simmons hadn't seen in a long time. He knew his own skin must be blotchy too, and he didn't care.

“And honestly, I don’t even  _ want _ to be the CEO. We all know you're going to find some way to medically outlive me anyway, so you can keep the job.” He drew himself straighter, matching his father's height, and spat, “I'm going to get my Ph.D.”

It was probably the stupidest closing line he could've come up with, and Simmons knew it, ears crimson even as he pivoted on his heel and walked away. He could not stay in this party anymore after what he'd just said to his father, and if he tried he'd probably last maybe a minute before breaking down and apologizing. 

He didn't want to apologize this time, so instead he left, mind whirling as he slipped past partygoers and made his way outside.

Which was where he promptly started freaking out.

“Oh no,” he moaned, curling his fingers in his hair, staring wide-eyed at nothing. His father was probably announcing his removal from the will right now. What if he called Carolina, told her to fire Simmons? His stomach dropped, settling somewhere near his shoes. Fuck, what did he just do, it didn't matter that those were all of the things he'd wanted to say to Senior for years, or that for the first time he felt proud of how he’d handled one of his father's “talks”. He'd just ruined his whole life in one idiotic moment of growing a backbone and now he was done for, that was it, no amount of begging would have his father forgetting about this--

“Holy shit, Simmons!” he heard, and he looked up to see Grif coming toward him. Grif was...beaming, which wasn't an expression Simmons usually saw on him. “Holy  _ shit _ , that was fucking incredible, you should've seen his face when you left--”

“Grif,” Simmons said, voice strained. “Grif, what the hell did I just do?”

“You told your old man off, that's what you did! I swear, if this hadn't been Senior's party, I feel like everybody else would've fucking applauded.”

Grif was right in front of him now, seemingly ignorant to what a  _ fucking disaster _ this was. Simmons grabbed for his wrists, held them so Grif would stay in place.

“No, no, you don’t understand. This is really, really bad.” Simmons looked into Grif's eyes, trying to make him get it, but Grif, infuriatingly, kept grinning. “You don't just--I humiliated him! At  _ his own party! _ Can't you get that through your fat head, you dumbass, I'm  _ fucked _ \--”

“No, you're not. Dude - Dick - calm down, man, seriously.” Grif pulled his wrists away, grabbed Simmons by the face. “Breathe, c’mon. Deep breaths.”

Simmons quickly side glanced at the entrance to the mansion. The two of them were currently standing just off the main walkway, next to the circular driveway, and other than a few valets they were the only people out here. No one else had followed Simmons; his father was unlikely, at this point, to burst out and demand an explanation for his behavior. 

While Simmons knew he'd have to talk to Senior eventually, right now he let himself breathe, closing his eyes and inhaling and exhaling slowly, opening them again when his heart rate started to slow toward something more normal. Grif was watching him, and he almost swore he felt a gentle brush of Grif's thumb over his flesh cheek.

“There you go.” Grif's grin had become more of a smug smirk. “With all those people having seen how he treated you in the first place, I doubt he's gonna make himself look worse by denouncing you.”

Simmons made a noise of disbelief. “They're all rich assholes and in his pocket, like they'd choose my side over his.”

“I told you, they seemed into it. Maybe you're not the only person Senior is a self-righteous dick to.”

Simmons blinked. Of course he wasn't, Senior treated everyone like that unless they were useful - how had he not thought of that? Senior’s default mode was condescension and superiority, and Grif had a point. If the witnesses to their little fight had dealt personally with Senior in the past, it was possible they would have enjoyed watching his son call him out.

It was enough to have Simmons’ shoulders slumping. “Okay,” he said, finally. “Maybe...maybe this won't all blow up in my face.”

“That's the spirit.” Before Simmons could reply, Grif was pulling him in. His mouth was hot over Simmons’, hot and eager, and Simmons couldn't help the way his breath hitched as his hands scrabbled at Grif's jacket, the whiplash of events leaving him lightheaded.

“Plus,” Grif murmured, pulling back just enough to speak, “That was really fucking hot.”

Simmons gave a weak laugh even as Grif kissed him again. It didn't matter that they were doing this practically on the front stoop of his father's mansion; he had Grif in his arms, Grif who had come all the way out here to reassure him that the world was not, in fact, ending.

And that he had, actually, for the first time, successfully stood up to his father. Warmth bloomed in his chest, and he pulled Grif closer.

“We should celebrate,” Grif said the next time they broke apart, eyes bright and breath coming in quiet pants. “Buy some booze or something, toast to you finally telling Senior to piss off.”

“That's not what I said,” Simmons pointed out, amused. He wasn't about to say no to some celebratory drinking, though. It would help later when he inevitably started spiraling into panic again. “But sure, we'll celebrate. And on the way we can hit up the store for supplies to make those musubi things you always order.”

Grif stared at him in disbelief, then gave a loud laugh. He seemed as heady on Simmons’ ‘victory’ as Simmons was himself. “You fucking - you'd eat spam? Really?”

“Why not? We're celebrating, right?” Simmons grinned down at him and Grif laughed again, shaking his head as he cupped Simmons’ face.

“God, I fucking love you, you damn kiss-ass,” he said as he pulled Simmons back in. 

With Grif's lips doing a very good job of distracting him, it took a few minutes for what Grif said to properly filter through Simmons' brain. When they did, he jerked back as if he'd been burned, staring at Grif in utter shock.

Grif, kiss-dazed, frowned. “What?”

“You, you said.” Simmons swallowed, his mouth very dry. His hands had dropped to his sides, and maybe this wasn't the most encouraging reaction but Simmons’ ability to think had somewhat short-circuited. “You said you--that you lo--”

The word stuck in his throat, lodging itself right up against where his pounding heart seemed to have relocated to. He swallowed a second time, tried to get it unstuck. He had to--do something. Say it back, make Grif understand he felt it too, something, anything that wasn't just standing here staring like a moron.

Then realization dawned on Grif's face, horror blossoming in his eyes, and Simmons knew it was too late.

“Grif--”

“I, uh, I gotta go.” Grif took several steps backward, moving faster than Simmons had ever seen him go. “Rain check on that musubi, uh, I got, something I forgot to take care of, so I'll just. See you later.”

“Grif, wait--”

But Grif was already turning away, absconding so quickly he was practically running. Running away from Simmons, who should be going after him and shaking some sense into him, if he could just. Make his legs move.

By the time his body started responding again, Grif had rounded the corner onto the main road and was out of sight. Simmons watched the spot where Grif had disappeared for a long moment, his chest aching as if someone had punched him in the sternum. He was used to despair, but this time it felt worse than usual.

He could tell himself Grif hadn't meant it that way, that it hadn't been a  _ real  _ confession, if not for how Grif had bolted. This wasn't something they could just pretend never happened the next time they saw each other; or at least, Simmons couldn't. It was everything he’d wanted and then Grif had  _ run away  _ like Simmons had suddenly contracted a highly infectious disease. Like being in love with Simmons was so awful he had to get away as quickly as possible.

Simmons’ cybernetic hand fisted at his side, the pressure of tears building behind his eye. Damnit, he couldn't--he needed to get out of here before his father did come outside, or someone else saw him.

He couldn't go home, obviously - what if Grif was there and just ran off again? - so he really only had one option. Gritting his teeth, he pulled out his phone, found the number he was looking for, and pressed the call button.

When he heard a voice on the other end, Simmons asked, “Hey Donut, you busy?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blackgoliath on tumblr, bulkhead on pillowfort, and I am going to link [this rad art](https://venochu.tumblr.com/post/181830521473/this-worked-pretty-well-for-a-while-until-a-very) from chapter one every time so help me


	11. Ya Done Goofed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dude, are you fucking kidding me right now? You made me cancel my date because you finally told your _fucking husband_ you're in love with him, so now neither of us are getting laid?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this chapter is a bit shorter, but I also had a medical thing come up that took me out of commission for a few days, rip
> 
> and it's another Grif POV! 
> 
> today's theme: Tucker is suffering

_ God, I fucking love you, you damn kiss-ass. _

The words echoed in Grif's ears -  _ his _ words, words that had come out of his own fucking mouth - as he hurried away from Simmons, half expecting to be grabbed and detained for an explanation at any moment. It didn't happen, and Grif successfully escaped, furiously booking a ride as he charged up the street and put as much space between himself and Simmons as possible.

He couldn't get Simmons’ dumb face out of his head, either; the sheer shock, the way he'd stared at Grif as if he'd sprouted a second head. All because Grif had been an  _ idiot  _ and said something he shouldn't have.

Damnit. God fucking  _ damnit. _

“Tucker,” he said into his phone, once he was safely in the backseat of an Uber, “You gotta let me come over. It's an emergency.”

“Seriously?” Tucker whined. Grif could hear a ruckus in the background; probably Junior, who kept squawking for some reason. Then came Tucker's muffled, “I know, little man, I don't want you to go either, but it's your mom's weekend.”

“Having trouble?” Grif asked as the scuffle continued. Even over the phone he could hear Junior's grumbling at having to leave. Somehow, the kid seemed to prefer Tucker to his alien mom, and as far as Grif knew this scene was a common occurrence in the Tucker household. He didn't get it. Who'd want Lavernius “bow chika wow wow” Tucker as a dad at all, let alone prefer him?

_ At least he sticks around _ , a traitorous voice said in the back of his mind, and nope he wasn't going to think about that. Had purposefully not thought about that in years.

“I don't see what the problem is,” Grif went on, over the continuing sounds of Tucker wrestling Junior into leaving. “You'll have the place to yourself, right? So let's get shitfaced.”

“The  _ problem _ ,” Tucker replied, in a way that Grif could practically hear his teeth grinding together as he spoke, “Is that I had a date tonight. Wash is coming over.”

“Washington is cool!” Junior piped in from the background. His voice always had an odd edge to it that Grif could only describe as “chittering”. “He said he'd teach me to skateboard, so I should stay--”

“ _ No _ , Junior.”

“You can get laid some other time,” Grif said, over their arguing. “I told you, this is an  _ emergency _ .”

“Like hell I can! Thanks to  _ some _ body, Wash has to sneak around to even see me--”

“I told you that wasn't my fault--”

“--and now we barely get time together--”

“Dad, I wanna hang out with Washington too--!”

“Listen, you know I wouldn't crash your date night if it wasn't something major,” Grif said finally, and something in his tone must have worked because Tucker went quiet. “I'll make it up to you, alright? I just. Can't go home right now.”

Other than Junior's protests, there was silence on the other end of the line. After a moment, Grif heard a deep sigh, and Tucker said, “Where are you?”

“Uh.” Grif glanced out the window at the scenery they were passing. “On my way? About twenty minutes out, I think.”

“Fine. Junior's mom should have picked him up by then, and I'll text Wash to reschedule. But you seriously owe me, asshole!”

“Is that any way to talk in front of your kid,” Grif said, even as he slumped into his seat. He wasn't sure what he'd have done if Tucker had said no.

“He knows better than to swear,” Tucker shot back, defensive. “Isn't that right, Junior?”

“Damn right!”

Grif hung up before he laughed and annoyed Tucker into changing his mind, settling in for the ride to his place. Grif had gotten lucky that Senior had hosted his little party relatively close to Blood Gulch rather than dragging the two of them somewhere hours away - or, even worse, off planet. This way he didn't have to book a shuttle, and he was pretty sure if he didn't start drinking in the next half hour he would go insane.

“Somebody better have fucking died,” Tucker said when he opened the door. “I could be getting reamed right now, and I'm not.”

“Please stop talking, I absolutely don't want to think about you getting fucked by our boss.” Grif pushed past him, making a beeline for the kitchen. “I hope you have a lot of booze because I need it.”

“What in the hell happened?” Tucker followed him in, watching with folded arms as Grif raided the fridge and pulled out a six pack of cider. “And why do you look like you just came from a wedding?”

“One of Senior's dumb parties.” Grif popped the top, took a long drag and then sighed. “Oh thank fuck.”

“Seriously. What the hell was so important that you had to come over?”

Grif looked down at the bottle in his hand, and realized that, now that he was here, he didn't want to talk about it. So instead he lifted the cider and said, “Since when do you drink this brand? I thought you liked the watered-down piss that's Natty Light.”

“Listen, Natty Light got me through college. It's an acquired taste.” Tucker sighed, then moved forward and grabbed the six pack. “Wash likes this kind. C'mon, let's sit down.”

The living room was cluttered, but that was to be expected when you had a kid running around, not that Grif ever cared about a mess. Tucker tossed a stuffed bear off of the couch and onto the floor, then flopped down as Grif sat next to him. He took another long pull from his drink while Tucker opened one for himself, wishing his body would hurry up and start feeling it already.

“I don't think I'm drunk enough to tell you yet,” Grif said finally, and Tucker groaned, rolling his eyes.

“You're lucky I'm such a good friend, and you also better buy me a twelve pack of Natty Light for this.”

“Considering that'll be about six bucks, sure.”

Tucker elbowed him in the side, making him whine and dramatically fall sideways while Tucker grabbed for the remote.

“Well, whatever, once you're drunk enough to spill, do it,” he said as he turned on the TV. “In the meantime we can watch the Lakers game, and I can actually pay attention since I'm not going to be groping  _ you _ .”

“I swear to God if you give me any more details about having sex with Washington I will die.”

It took another drink and a half for Grif to start feeling it, and by then they were in the second quarter of the game. Tucker was enraptured, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs, exclaiming or commenting every so often when something interesting happened in the game. Grif was just letting it numb his brain because honestly basketball was really boring and he'd rather be watching some sci-fi--

\--...with Simmons. Fuck.

“I told Simmons I loved him,” he blurted, and Tucker looked up, lowering the volume on the TV.

“Wait,” he said slowly, as Grif stared into his cider, “ _ That's  _ your emergency?”

“Listen, you didn't see the look on his face--”

“Dude, are you fucking kidding me right now? You made me cancel my date because you finally told your  _ fucking husband _ you're in love with him, so now neither of us are getting laid?!”

“You don't get it, man! He looked so freaked out, I had to get out of there.”

“Oh my God,” Tucker groaned, dropping his face in his hands. “You two are such fucking morons. He loves you too, jackass! Everyone knows it, we've known for months!”

“What?” Grif laughed in disbelief, taking another drink. “That's, that's stupid.”

“He’s been on cloud nine ever since you took him to that class, Donut won't shut up about it!” He groaned again, wordlessly, shaking his head back and forth. “I hate you so much right now.”

“No, you're wrong, there's no way. He barely tolerates me.”

“I am going to kill you with my bare fucking hands, so help me.” Tucker glared at Grif through his fingers. “You guys have been having sex for months, you don't complain about him anymore - well, not in a bad way - and I'm pretty sure Donut is going to write a screenplay about your romance. And you're seriously gonna sit here and try to tell me he  _ barely tolerates  _ you?”

“Well, I don't know, man.” Grif shifted, growing more uncomfortable with this conversation by the second. He didn't talk about feelings, it was an unspoken rule. If you didn't care, it wasn't a problem, and caring about Simmons and all his shit came with a lot of problems.

Problems that Grif had already been trying to help with...son of a bitch.

“You're gonna tell me I fucked this up, aren't you,” he continued, and Tucker let loose a sound of frustrated mirth.

“Yeah I am! You told him you loved him and then ran the hell away, you super fucked up!”

“Uuuggghhhh.” Grif threw his head against the back of the couch. “See, this is why I don't do this shit. Love is stupid.”

“Well that's too damn bad, buddy, because you're in the thick of it.” Tucker drained his bottle, reached for the last one from the pack. “And also, you owe me two twelve packs of Natty Light now.”

“ _ UUUUGGGHHH.” _

\- - -

Tucker had another few loose beers in his fridge, and by the time they finished those, Grif was drunk enough to be satisfied. It was also when Tucker kicked him out, saying that he might still be able to get Wash to come over if Grif left immediately. Grif still wasn't ready to face Simmons, but he reasoned that if he slipped in quick he could get to his room without them having to talk to each other at all.

It turned out he didn't have to worry. By the time he got back, all the lights were off, and he realized Simmons wasn't even home. Well. Okay. That made things easier to put off.

Stripping out of his suit took some time, and he nearly fell over once, but he finally managed to drag on some pajama pants and fall into bed. His wonderful, comfortable bed, the true love of his life.

After food, anyway.

Unfortunately, because his brain was a traitor, even the alcohol he'd had wouldn't turn it off. He kept thinking about Simmons’ face when he'd given his accidental confession, and then Tucker's words.

_ He loves you too, jackass! _

He'd said Simmons was ‘on cloud nine’ after that class. Why hadn't Grif noticed? Sure, maybe he was less anal these past two months, and maybe he smiled more, at Grif specifically, and maybe he'd actually taken Grif's offer up on the mirror thing--

Oh, fuck. Grif buried his face in his pillow and groaned. He was such a fucking idiot.

Well, nothing he could do about it now, not until Simmons got back. Sure, he could text the guy, but. He didn't feel like it.

So he’d just wait until tomorrow. Or, you know, until his deathbed. Then he could immediately die and no longer have to deal with it.

Grif passed out not long after that, the alcohol finally doing its job in making his thoughts shut up so he could get on with another of his favorite activities: being unconscious.

\- - -

He woke up sometime the next morning, rolled over, and went back to sleep. It was the weekend so he could laze around as much as he wanted and also not face Simmons, which was the preferable scenario. And if he got hungry he was pretty sure he had a bag of ring dings under his bed, having long since rebuilt his snack stash in the aftermath of Simmons’ cleaning frenzy all those months ago.

The problem became that, the next time he woke up, Simmons was sitting on the edge of his bed, facing away from him. Fuck.

“Why are you in my room,” he said, voice still rough with sleep, not bothering to sit up or move at all.

“You didn't lock the door,” Simmons said quietly. Oh God, was he going blank again, Grif was not awake enough for this.

“So you just let yourself in? That's pretty messed up.”

“I know, sorry. But I didn't think you'd let me in otherwise. I didn't mean to wake you.”

“You didn't - wait, how long have you just been sitting here watching me sleep?” Grif rolled onto his back, continued to refuse to sit up. “Because that's creepy.”

“Not that long!” Simmons said, guilt clear in his voice. So, definitely for a bit. Grif didn’t know how to feel about that. “I just--we have to talk. About last night.”

Of course he'd do this when Grif had just woken up. Grif rolled onto his stomach and made a noise of protest into his pillow.

“Come on, Grif, you ran off before I could say anything--”

“Your expression said everything, bud.”

“Okay that's. True.” Simmons cleared his throat, and even without looking Grif could hear him fidgeting. What he wouldn't give to not be having this conversation right now. “But, I have to know…”

He heard Simmons swallow, and then say, “Did you mean it?”

Grif remained face down on the bed. He was definitely not awake enough for this right now. He was never going to be awake enough for this. And Simmons was expecting him to answer.

Simmons always ruined  _ everything.  _ That was Grif's story and he was sticking to it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the cliffhanger v:
> 
> as always, you can find me on tumblr at blackgoliath and pillowfort at bulkhead 
> 
> and check out this [ great art](https://venochu.tumblr.com/post/181830521473/this-worked-pretty-well-for-a-while-until-a-very%20good) from chapter one!


	12. Baby Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So,” Donut said, settling in and crossing his legs, “When you see Grif tomorrow, what are you going to do?” 
> 
> “Pretend he doesn’t exist and proceed to ignore him for the rest of my life.” 
> 
> “Ugh, no!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY we come to the end of this ridiculous goofball of a romp; I hope y'all had fun, cuz I sure did! 
> 
> didn't mean to take so long on finishing the fic but this chapter fought me a little. maybe it didn't want to end? who knows. 
> 
> today's theme: Donut should get paid for this

“Hey Donut, are you busy?”

“Hey Simmons!” came Donut's cheerful voice through the phone. “Not really, why? Did you need to talk?”

His first instinct was to be annoyed that Donut knew exactly why he was calling, but in all honesty he _never_ contacted Donut outside of work if he could help it, so it made sense the guy would assume something was up.

Glancing at the mansion entrance, he started walking toward one of the valets. “Uh, sorta,” he said. “Can I come over? I'd rather not do this over the phone.”

“Oh, sure! I'm not doing anything tonight, so of course you can!”

“Great, I should be there soon.”

“This is awesome, we haven't hung out like _ever_. Maybe we can make it a slumber party! I've got margarita mix and snacks and movies; I know how to treat a man just right--”

“Okay, sounds great, Donut!” Simmons said loudly. “Bye!”

He hung up before Donut could start talking about them giving each other manicures or something, already regretting this decision and knowing he didn't have much of a choice. It wasn't like he had anyone to talk to, and as much as this talk was going to _royally suck_ , he needed to ease the pressure in his chest.

...Maybe he'd take Donut up on those margaritas.

He got caught up in his own thoughts as he stood there waiting for the valet to return with his car, and maybe that’s why he didn’t notice someone approaching him until it was too late.

“Richard,” Senior said, and Simmons violently startled, his heart rate skyrocketing from zero to sixty. “We need to talk.”

He should have known this would happen; that damn valet was taking too long. He should’ve called Donut after sending the guy off to get his car, rather than waste precious time, during which his father had clearly gotten over their altercation enough to come looking for him. He couldn’t meet Senior’s eye, instead trying to subtly watch the corner for the appearance of his car.

 _I’m sorry for causing a scene,_ he prepared to say.

“Now isn’t the best time, Dad,” came out of his mouth.

Senior, in Simmons’ peripheral, had much the same look he’d had earlier when Simmons started standing up to him: pure, unexpected shock. “You will make time for me, young man,” Senior said, as if Simmons was suddenly twelve again. The anxious little boy inside him certainly cringed at the tone, and yet outwardly Simmons just sighed.

“You made a fool out of me,” Senior continued. “You are my heir, and I expect you to start acting like it--”

“I’m serious, now isn’t the best time,” Simmons interrupted. “I know we need to talk, and we will--” God he was not looking forward to that, “--but right now I just. Can’t. I’m sorry.”

Senior stared at him, and Simmons squirmed beneath that gaze. It was so much easier to find it within himself to talk back to his father when Grif was nearby, and thinking about Grif right now only weakened his resolve. He was about to open his mouth and take back everything he’d said inside when Senior spoke first.

“You have been under a lot of stress recently,” Senior said slowly; now it was Simmons’ turn to stare. “It seems you need rest. Go home, Richard. Call me on Sunday. We will talk then.”

He walked back to the mansion’s entrance, leaving Simmons standing there dumbfounded. Of course, it was just then that the valet returned with his car, and he had to shake himself out of it in order to grab his keys and get the hell away from this party before anything else crazy happened. He was pretty sure that if one more person acted out of character that night he'd spontaneously combust.

\- - -

Donut was, as usual, extremely chipper when Simmons showed up on his doorstep, ushering Simmons inside with a smile as he chattered about all of the fun things they were going to do that night, somehow picking up right where he’d left off when Simmons hung up on him. He even had a margarita already prepared, and it was in Simmons’ hands before he’d even slipped out of his coat.

“Um, thanks,” Simmons said, passing the plastic glass from one hand to the next so that he could take his coat off and hang it up. He took a sip of the red slush and blinked several times; this drink was very, _very_ strong. Best to stick to one, tonight.

“Well look at you!” Donut leaned back, taking in Simmons’ suit and tie, letting out a wolf-whistle that had him flushing. He hadn’t had time to change into something more casual, and had therefore shown up in the same clothes he’d worn to Senior’s party. “You look so _fancy_ , I could just eat you up!”

“If you keep talking like that, I’m going to take my margarita and leave.”

Despite the threat, Simmons cautiously moved further into the apartment, looking around as he did. Donut was...well, he couldn’t say _surprisingly_ clean, because he really couldn’t imagine Donut living in a sty the way Grif enjoyed, but Simmons hadn’t expected this level of neatness. The floor was clean, the wooden surfaces of side tables and shelves looked like they were dusted regularly, everything seemed to have its own place, and the whole apartment smelled faintly of lavender. He found the source when he spotted one of those big room fresheners plugged into the wall near the front hall.

The kitchen was small, and yet the architect had managed to pack in a tiny kitchen island with two stools. It was here that Simmons sat, not at all willing to risk spilling his brightly-colored slushie drink on anything in Donut’s clean living room.

“You know,” Donut said, plopping easily onto the stool beside his with careless grace, “I don’t think you’ve ever been here before.”

“That's because I haven't been.” Simmons slurped up some margarita, trying not to make a face at the extreme sweetness of it. “And you've never been to my place either, remember?”

“Oh, that's right. Well, then this will be the start of a new era in our friendship!”

“Sure,” Simmons said, certain he would never ever invite Donut into his home.

As Simmons sipped at his drink, Donut twisted on his stool, propping one elbow on the kitchen island as he faced Simmons. His expression, out of the corner of Simmons’ eye, was uncharacteristically solemn. Seeing Donut look like that was unsettling, and the hard knot in Simmons’ chest tightened.

“So what happened?” Donut asked softly, like Simmons was a small, scared animal that might bolt if he spoke too loudly. “What did you need to talk about?”

Maybe Donut wasn’t wrong to think of him as a scared animal; Simmons fidgeted in his chair, fighting the urge to get up and run away from this conversation the same way Grif had run away from his confession. What had him staying was the knowledge that there was no way he was ready to go home and face Grif yet.

Plus, Donut pretty much already knew how Simmons felt, what with their last conversation concerning kisses and their meanings, so at least he didn’t have to give his _own_ confession.

Not to Donut, anyway.

“Grif said he loved me,” Simmons replied finally, after taking a large gulp of margarita. He stared down into the slushy drink, waiting for the smug, because surely Donut would say ‘I told you so’ after all those assurances that Grif definitely returned Simmons’ feelings. That’s what Simmons would’ve done if the situation were reversed.

Instead, he nearly jumped out of his skin when Donut squealed and grabbed him in a sudden bear hug, rocking him hard enough to kill an infant. “Oh, that’s great, Simmons!! I’m so happy to hear that!”

“Donut,” Simmons gritted out, “Get off of me.”

“I told you he loved you, didn’t I!” Donut went on, as if Simmons hadn’t spoken. “The way he was kissing you at the office party, there was nothing else it could’ve been! We should have another wedding - you can renew your vows this time, now that you really mean it! And I can help decorate--”

He stopped, and Simmons assumed it was because of how he was gnashing his teeth and digging his fingernails into Donut’s arm. Apparently Donut was actually oblivious to these things, because he turned to Simmons with a confused frown on his face, head tilted, strands of hair falling into his big blue eyes.

“But if Grif said he loved you, then what are you doing here?”

“That’s what I needed to talk to you about, if you’d shut up and let me talk!” Simmons pushed Donut off of him, facing forward as the momentum had Donut’s stool precariously overbalancing, nearly sending Donut toppling onto the floor. Simmons did not bother reaching out to keep him from falling. “We were at one of Dad’s parties and I kinda---well it’s not important, but when I went outside Grif came with me, and he said he loved me, and then he just--he fucking--he _ran away!_ ”

Donut, knuckles gripping the counter’s edge hard, managed to bring himself from back from the brink of danger. “He...ran away?”

“Yeah! I mean, I guess it’s probably my fault, I didn’t say anything because he caught me off guard, but he didn’t even give me a chance!” Simmons angrily slurped margarita out of his glass, then winced and shoved it away as a sharp pain erupted in his temple.

“Son of a bitch!”

“You have to drink slowly or you’ll get brainfreeze,” Donut said helpfully. “Try putting your tongue on the roof of your mouth. Here, let me slide my fingers in there, I’ll show you--”

“ _Don’t you fucking dare put your fingers in my mouth!_ ”

“Okay, okay!” Donut put both hands up in the air in surrender, only lowering them when it no longer looked like Simmons might try to bite one off. “So...Grif confessed to you and then ran? Why would he do that? He has to know you feel the same way, _everyone_ knows that--”

“Fuck you,” Simmons fumed.

“--so why would he run?” Donut’s lips curled downward in an almost comical frown, his eyebrows pinching in the middle. After a moment, his eyebrows curved even further, turning his confusion into what looked like real anger. But that couldn’t be right, Simmons thought, reaching for his margarita again as the pain in his skull ebbed. Donut didn’t get angry.

He nearly threw his glass and all its contents across the kitchen when Donut suddenly shouted, “That rude good-for-nothing asshole!”

“Donut, what the hell?!”

“How dare he! Even if you didn’t answer right away, who does he think he is, running off and stomping on your heart like that!” Donut seemed to be working himself up into an actual rage, his cheeks pink and eyes glinting like sharpened flint. He rocketed up from his chair, this time nearly bowling Simmons over, and added loudly, “Come on! We are going to find him right now and give him a good talking to!”

“Whoa, hey, what? No!” Simmons grabbed for Donut’s arm, jerked him back down onto his stool. Having Grif bolt like that had been heartbreaking and embarrassing enough; if Donut burst into their apartment like a crusading hero and tried to shake some sense into Grif, it would only make things a thousand times worse. Simmons was mortified even thinking about it. Facing Grif after their unspoken rule on not talking about Feelings had been broken was bad enough, but now his imagination was running wild with images of Grif getting so freaked out by Donut he moved out then and there.

Or, more likely, he’d just run out the door and send other people to get his stuff.

“We are _not_ going to find Grif right now. We are going to sit here, and get drunk, and, and I don’t know what after that, but mostly I want to get drunk.”

Donut took several deep breaths through his nose, and finally his angry expression crumpled into that pitying look that always made Simmons want to punch him.

“Alcohol can’t solve all your problems, Simmons,” he said, trying to gently pull the plastic glass out of Simmons’ hands. Unfortunately for him, Simmons had a vice grip on the stem, and after a little tug-of-war, Donut sighed and gave up.

Which gave Simmons leeway to tip the rest of the margarita into his mouth, brainfreeze be damned.

“Maybe not,” he said, face scrunching at the pain as he tried not to make it obvious that he was trying Donut’s tongue trick, “But it makes them more bearable.”

“Fine, but after this I’m cutting you off!”

Donut made good on his word, of course, like the motherly asshole he was, and Simmons grumped his way into the living room with a glass of water and a bowl of tortilla chips, no longer caring if he messed up the clean couch The worst part about Donut keeping him relatively sober is that he was right; he _had_ been leaning too much on alcohol recently, even though he’d long ago promised himself he’d never follow in his mother’s footsteps. No matter how much he told himself this year had been more stressful than usual - that this _night_ had been more stressful than usual - he probably should cut back on the drinking.

That didn’t mean he was going to be happy about it, so as Donut joined him on the couch with some pink lemonade (apparently the guy needed to rot his teeth with something, even if it wasn’t alcoholic) he broodily sipped at his water.

“So,” Donut said, settling in and crossing his legs, “When you see Grif tomorrow, what are you going to do?”

“Pretend he doesn’t exist and proceed to ignore him for the rest of my life.”

“Ugh, no!” Donut sighed and lightly slapped Simmons on the shoulder, then made a face when he realized he’d hit the metal one. “You are going to sit him down, and you are going to ask about tonight, and you are going to tell him your feelings. Riiiiight?”

“Or, better plan.” Simmons chugged some water, thinking that if he could just pretend hard enough he was drinking beer, he might fool himself into feeling tipsy. “I move to Europa. Get a nice house boat.”

“No!! Just because Grif ran away from this doesn’t mean you get to!”

Simmons groaned, slumping against the back of the couch. “Well why _not_. Everything was fine when we were pretending there was nothing going on! All this touchy feely shit just messed everything up. Who even says Grif will want to talk to me when I see him?”

“You have to _make_ him talk to you!” Donut said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Sit on him if you have to!”

“He’ll just play dead.”

“Tickle him until he stops.”

Despite himself, Simmons’ lip quirked. Now there was an idea.

Mostly because it could lead to fucking which would not be talking about feelings and was therefore a more preferable option.

Yet Simmons said, “It’s literally impossible to make him do anything, you know that right? I can sit on him and tickle him and threaten him and none of it will make a difference.”

“Now we both know that's not true.” Donut grinned in the face of Simmons’ squint. “If anyone can get him to do anything, it's you.”

Simmons snorted. “And where'd you get that idea.”

“From the facts! You got Grif to do his work, to clean up after himself at home - you even got him to confess first! Nobody else can get him to do _anything._ ”

Simmons opened his mouth to refute that, then stopped, cheeks heating. Now that Donut said something, he realized he had a point; even if Simmons had to drag Grif metaphorically kicking and screaming into putting in effort, he'd never seen anyone else have any success.

Eventually he settled on, “Grif only cleans up after himself _some_ times.”

Donut huffed. “Still counts!”

Simmons wanted to argue more, to say that there was no point in trying, but he found that any argument he could've come up with either made no sense or had already been shot down. God damnit Donut. When he’d come here, he'd expected someone who’d let him vent and be upset and give him ice cream. He hadn't expected Donut to actually _help._

“Fine,” he said. “Fine! I’ll talk to him. Just get off my ass, okay?”

“If riding your ass is what it takes,” Donut replied loftily, “Then I will happily ride it all night long.”

The yelp he gave when Simmons smacked him in the head with a throw pillow was extremely satisfying, and despite the talk with Grif looming on the horizon, it made him feel a lot better.

\- - -

Of the long list Donut had for ‘sleepover activities’, the only one he could convince Simmons to partake in was a movie marathon, though he definitely pouted when Simmons outright refused giving each other manicures. Why the fuck would he ever want to paint his nails?

When he asked as much, Donut said, “Well you’re typing and looking at your fingers all day, sometimes it’s nice to have a burst of color!”

“I look at my screen when I’m typing, I don’t need to look at the keys, or my hands.” Simmons stopped, and squinted, then asked slowly, “Do you look at the keyboard when you type?”

“Well, duh!” Donut laughed. “Why wouldn’t I?” And Simmons spent the next twenty minutes completely missing what was happening in the movie they were watching, too busy wondering how in the hell Donut had gotten a desk job when he was apparently really shit at typing.

After yet another cheesy Godzilla movie, Donut’s constant yawning finally became too much to bear, and Simmons suggested they go to bed. A round of half-arguing broke out as Donut insisted Simmons come and sleep in the king size bed with him, while Simmons firmly said that he would be very happy staying on the couch, thank you, no he does not want to share a bed, he doesn’t care if they’re ‘besties’, he is _fine out here_. Eventually Donut was too tired to keep trying and gave in, much to Simmons’ relief, and as Donut turned the lights off when he left, Simmons burrowed himself into the blankets they’d found for him and closed his eyes.

He had thought he’d have a hard time of sleeping, especially since Donut was true to his word and didn’t let him have any more alcohol. Turned out he was wrong; almost as soon as he’d found a comfortable position, legs curled so they didn’t hang off the couch, he was asleep. Emotional exhaustion could do that to a guy.

\- - -

When Simmons woke up, it was already mid-morning, and he yelped and fell off the couch in surprise when he realized how late it had gotten. Donut, coming out of his kitchen with a steaming mug of tea, didn’t seem perturbed by Simmons shouting at him for not waking him up.

“You needed your rest!” Donut chirped. “Gotta have plenty of energy for pinning Grif down and making him talk!”

Simmons drove himself home, picking up an iced coffee on the way and draining the entire thing within five minutes of leaving the coffee drive through. He was getting more and more antsy the closer he got to the house (or maybe it was all that caffeine) and couldn’t stop drumming his finger on the steering wheel whenever he hit a red light. As much as he hated to admit it, Donut was right and he needed to talk to Grif and get all this shit straightened out. Going on like they had before wasn’t an option, not after Grif’s confession, and he really didn’t want to go through the same dance of ignoring each other that they had during the holidays.

Sure, that time had been his fault, but it didn’t mean Grif was allowed to pull the same thing.

The house was quiet when he stepped inside, though the shoes at the door told him Grif was home. His hands shook, and after he took off his jacket he shoved them in his pockets, forced himself to take several deep breaths and calm down. He had an idea of what he wanted to say, he’d sat in the driveway for fifteen minutes running it over in his head, and all he had to do was trap Grif somewhere and spit it out. Then they could...then they could…

He cursed quietly. He still couldn’t let himself imagine what came next; every time he tried, his brain started going over all the worst-case scenarios again, and the pressure in his chest and behind his eyes grew unbearable.

With his house slippers on, his determined march to Grif’s bedroom door didn’t feel as powerful as he would’ve liked. Simmons stopped outside it, steeled himself, rapped his knuckles smartly against the wood, and waited. And...waited. He knocked again, a little harder this time, but still there came no answer. Pressing his ear to the door didn’t reveal anything; if Grif was in there, he could’ve had his headphones in or been asleep, and both of which Grif was surprisingly quiet during. Chewing his cheek, Simmons made a decision and slowly, carefully turned the doorknob, opening the door just wide enough to peer inside.

As it was approaching the afternoon, the room wasn’t quite as dark as it could’ve been, and Simmons could see a distinct Grif lump lying on the bed. So he was sleeping; okay, Simmons could work with that. He’d just go out and make himself something to eat and wait it out.

An hour and a half later, after a shower and a fresh change of clothes, he checked again. Grif hadn’t moved at all.

An hour after that, he checked again. Grif had rolled over, from the looks, but remained asleep.

As the afternoon wore on and Grif _still_ didn’t wake up, Simmons’ patience grew thin. When he cracked the door for the fourth time and saw that same unmoving lump on the bed, he narrowed his eyes and slipped inside.

“Grif,” he muttered, coming closer, stepping over the dirty clothing and empty soda cans that were strewn across the floor. “Grif, wake up.”

No response.

“ _Grif._ ” Simmons reached the bed, poked at Grif’s shoulder. “Grif, get up. Come on, it’s almost three-thirty in the afternoon. _Wake up._ ” A gentle shake, an increase in volume; none of this seemed to do the trick. Grif didn’t even stir, remaining where he was slumped amidst his crumpled blankets and pillows, and if not for the gentle movement of his chest Simmons would have thought he was dead.

After several more attempts, Simmons groaned, gave up, and sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. The longer it took them to have this conversation, the less nerve he had to go through with it at all.

So what if they just...never talked about it? So what if they pretended it didn’t happen? Grif would prefer that, surely, and Simmons...well, he’d gone this long without owning up to his feelings, what was the rest of his life?

The more he thought about it, the more he told himself it was stupid to think Grif would want to own up to some spur-of-the-moment confession, and just as he was pushing himself to a low point, he heard:

“Why are you in my room.”

Fast forward to now.

 _I didn’t want to wake you,_ Simmons had lied, when that was exactly what he’d wanted to do, and now Grif was lying facedown on his bed rather than answer Simmons’ question. Almost as if he thought he could will himself to melt out of existence, running away the same way he had the night before.

“Did you mean it?” Simmons repeated, and as the silence stretched on, his fists clenched on his legs and he snapped, “Come on, Grif, stop being a little bitch and tell me!”

“Shut up, Simmons, don’t get your panties in a bunch,” was Grif’s muffled reply, and with the speed of a breaching whale in a Nat Geo special, rolled onto his side, back to Simmons.

“If I say yes,” he grumbled, low enough that Simmons had to lean over to hear it, “Will you stop asking?”

Simmons swallowed, his heartbeat kicking into overdrive. The spike of anger had been enough to blanket his anxiety momentarily, but it had started coming back full-force until Grif said _that._ He swallowed again, mouth dry, and nodded until he remembered that Grif wasn’t looking at him.

“Yeah,” he croaked. Clearing his throat, he repeated, “Yeah. I’ll stop.”

“Good.”

Apparently that was all Grif needed, as he grabbed one of his many pillows and pulled it against his front, curling up like he was planning on going right back to sleep. Feeling lightheaded, Simmons couldn’t help but smile even as he rolled his eyes, moving around to the other side of the bed so he could rip the pillow out of Grif’s hold.

“Hey--!”

“Move over,” he demanded, smile growing at the groggy scowl Grif gave him. Simmons poked him in the stomach, enjoyed how he twitched. “Move _over_.”

“Don’t you have your own bed?” Grif whined, but he did as told, pushing himself toward the middle of the bed. Satisfied, and despite being completely dressed, Simmons plopped onto the mattress beside him, pressing his back against Grif’s front and pulling those warm, surprisingly strong arms around his middle.

He felt Grif’s breath against the back of his neck in a burst when Grif snorted and said, “Wow, you sure did pull a 180.”

“Shut up. I told you, you didn’t give me a chance to say anything.” He hesitated, then, his worries poking through the euphoria of having it confirmed that _Grif loved him he said he meant it it’s real Grif really loved him_ . “And I…” _love you too._ “I…” _LOVE YOU TOO._

“...Me too,” he finished, lamely.

“Wow, real convincing,” Grif muttered into his hair.

“Listen, it’s, it’s harder to say on the spot, alright? Besides, I’ve lo---liked you forever, it’s not my fault you didn’t notice!”

Grif was quiet for a long time, and Simmons fought not to squirm. He didn’t know about a certain conversation between Grif and his sister from several months ago, where Kai had said pretty much the same thing, and instead assumed Grif was annoyed that he’d chickened out of the ‘L’ word when Grif had already said it. Everything in him was beginning to tense, and he very seriously thought of pulling away when he felt the soft brush of lips against the nape of his neck.

“You’ve got terrible taste,” Grif said, pressing another kiss just beneath his ear. “I was an asshole as a kid.”

Simmons’ lip curved. “Yeah, no shit. And you haven’t got much better.” He yelped when Grif pinched him, swatting at Grif’s hand while his cheeks grew red and Grif snickered.

“Not like you can talk, _Dick._ ”

Simmons trapped Grif’s arms with his own, pulling up his longer legs so that the curve of Grif’s body better fit that of Simmons’ back. Grif seemed content with ending their teasing, as Grifs are wont to do when the option of ‘not moving at all’ presents itself, burying his face in the back of Simmons’ shoulder.

They stayed like that for a while, and though Simmons didn’t think Grif had actually fallen back to sleep, lying like this together was comfortable. He remembered thinking, once, how he wanted to do this all the time. Maybe even wake up in Grif’s arms like this every morning before they had to get up for work, or lie around on the weekends until Simmons elbowed Grif hard enough that they could get up for breakfast, or cuddle together after sex...

“Grif,” he said, softly, after a long period where the only sound in the room was their breathing. “This is going to change things.”

Grif grunted, which proved that Simmons had been right: he was awake. “Doesn’t have to.”

“But what if I wanted to move in here with you?”

“In here with….?” Grif picked himself up then, propping himself on his elbow to look down at Simmons. His hair, unbound, tickled over Simmons’ cheek. “Seriously? You want to share a room?”

“Why not?” Simmons shifted onto his back so he could look up into Grif’s face. It was the first time they’d made eye contact since the night before, and he could feel his body growing warm just by meeting Grif’s eyes. Ugh, just because they were in love didn’t mean he could become a fucking _sap_. “It’s the master bedroom, it’s got a king bed, it’s made for two people. And we’re, you know, married and all.”

“Yeah, but that was--this isn’t--” Grif’s mouth opened and closed, and then he huffed and flopped back onto the bed beside Simmons. And it was big enough; even with the both of them on it, lying on their backs, legs outstretched, they fit just fine.

Grif blew some curls out of his face. “I guess you’re right, that would make more sense. Sleeping on the couch after we fucked was messing up my back anyway.”

Simmons rolled his eyes. “Of course that’s what you think about first.”

“Hey, I can’t fuck you ‘til you scream if I throw my back out,” Grif shot back, and now Simmons turned beet red, covering his face with his hands.

“Christ, who are you, Tucker?”

“Better than being Donut.”

“Anyway!” Simmons said loudly, before Grif could say anything else that would have him flushing, “If we’re going to share a room, we’ll have to lay some ground rules. Like no more leaving wrappers or crumbs or _moldy food_ in the room!”

“Aw c’mon, Simmons, the garbage is so far away!”

“The garbage is right next to the bed, asshole, you just never change it when it gets full!”

“Because the outside bin is so far away!”

“I can put up with dirty clothes heaped in the corner until laundry day, but I am _not_ letting you grow another Harold while I’m sleeping in this bed with you.” Simmons sat up, glaring down at Grif to show how serious he was. “And if you don’t make an effort to keep the room at least mildly clean, then I’ll--I’ll--”

“What, you’ll clean it again?” Grif asked, looking completely unaffected.

“No, I’ll--I’ll tell Tucker you want sex advice!” Grif’s face went pale, and Simmons grinned, triumphant. “And if you’re _really_ bad, I’ll tell _Donut_ you want sex advice.”

Grif was beginning to look like someone had just informed him he had seven days left to live. “You wouldn’t.”

“Watch me.”

“Damnit, Simmons, why are you always the worst!” Grif returned to his facedown position, nose buried in his pillow. Simmons wondered if he could even breathe like that, until he heard a muffled: “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” Simmons said, almost gleefully. This was too much power and it was going to his head. “You said so last night!”

He earned what could only be called an agonized moan. Swinging his legs off the bed, Simmons pushed himself to his feet and started rummaging around in Grif’s nightstand drawer. Grif didn’t move beyond turning his head so he could see what the noise was.

“Dude, we’re agreeing to move in together, not that you can go through my shit.”

“I’m looking for a datapad.” Simmons gave a quiet ‘aha!’ when he finally found one, wiping the grease off its screen with the hem of his shirt. “There we go! And it even still works.”

“What do you need that for?” Grif asked, while Simmons sat back down beside him, legs crossed and datapad settled on his calves. He was already scrolling through the apps, and didn’t answer until he found the one he was looking for.

“Because,” Simmons said, opening the program, “When we moved in together, we didn’t come up with any sort of plan on how things would work out, and you know how well that went. This time, if we’re going to share a room, we’re going to strategize.”

“You’re moving into my room, dipshit, not going to war.”

“Stop talking,” Simmons said fondly. “I’ve got to think carefully if I want this contract to sound right. Now, cleanliness and sharing chores should definitely be the first clause…”

“Oh my God.” Grif actually rolled out of bed at that. “I’m going to get something to eat.”

“Okay, but don’t go too far!” Simmons called after Grif’s retreating back. “I’m going to need you to review and sign this when I’m done!”

“Forget what I said last night, I definitely hate you!” was Grif’s distant reply, and as Simmons leaned back against the headboard of the bed, typing up their new Marriage Contract, he smiled to himself, unconsciously humming under his breath. And not once, as he drew up his plan for what his future with Grif would look like, did he think about his father.

\- - -

“So,” Grif said from where he was leaning against the kitchen counter, giant bag of doritos in his hands, “How’s the app going?”

Simmons sat at the kitchen table glaring at the tablet sitting in front of him. There were a few datapads stacked to his left, and on his right was a coffee mug, already nearly empty. It was his third one in as many hours; Simmons’ eyebrow twitched sporadically.

“It was going fine until I got to the personal statement.” Simmons leaned forward on his forearms, staring at the mostly-blank word document on his screen. “What the hell am I even supposed to say? ‘I took a few classes in college, make me an engineer’?”

“How about, ‘I'm a super nerd just like everyone else in this program, I'm perfect for it'?” Grif suggested, unintimidated by the scathing look Simmons threw him.

“It's supposed to be an essay that makes me stand out as a potential student!”

“Well, you could say that you're half machine already, that should count for something, right?”

It was a few weeks after Simmons had announced his intentions to go to grad school in front of his father and all of his friends. He and Grif had finished moving all of Simmons’ stuff into the master bedroom, and sharing a room had been going about a smoothly as Simmons had imagined - meaning that there were certainly hurdles, but he hadn’t had to sic Donut or Tucker on Grif yet, which was a good sign. And while Simmons had initially tried to back out of grad school, a lot of prodding from Donut - and some surprisingly adamant prodding from Grif - had gotten him to actually start filling out an application. He hadn't told his father about that part yet; Senior seemed to have fallen into a deep state of denial, still acting as though Simmons would absolutely be taking over for him one day. He had stopped pestering Simmons about getting a promotion, at least, and Simmons felt lighter than he had in years.

Speaking of: “You hear from Senior lately?” Grif asked, before shoving chips into his mouth like this was a totally casual question on his part.

Simmons sighed. “He called the other day to talk about the best way to lead a board of directors...I just kinda tuned him out.”

“He's really fucking dense, isn't he,” Grif said, mouth full. Simmons’ jaw tightened, more at Grif spewing crumbs everywhere while he talked than at the insult to his dad. He was getting better about that. “You're gonna be heading your own big engineering firm some day and he's still gonna be giving you instructions on how to micromanage his secretary.”

“Well I don’t know about _that_ ,” Simmons mumbled, face flushingl. Damn his complexion and Grif’s uncanny ability to fluster him without even trying. “How about I actually get into grad school before we start thinking about me opening my own company?”

“Fine, whatever. But your dad is still being an idiot.”

“Yeah, well,” Simmons said, trying to focus on the essay ahead of him, “That’s kind of his default state these days.”

He spent several more minutes staring blankly at his tablet and making frustrated noises, fingers squeezing rhythmically around the stylus he was holding. He finished off the last of his coffee and grimaced, knowing he couldn’t drink anymore or else he’d be too jittery to even type, let alone think of a compelling and interesting personal statement. He just had to...do it. It shouldn’t be that hard.

“You’ve been staring at that forever,” Grif said very close to his ear, making Simmons jump. He’d been so lost in concentrating that he hadn’t even noticed Grif approach. “Time to take a break.”

“I can’t afford to take a break!” Simmons buried his face in his hands. “And don’t get too close, you smell like Doritos.”

“Just making myself taste good for you.”

“That is the least sexy thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Come on, get up.” Grif grabbed his arm and dragged him out of his chair; Simmons complained but didn’t fight it, allowing himself to be pulled into the living room and deposited on the couch. Grif was probably right, he thought muzzily as Grif flopped down beside him. His brain was fried from working on apps and questions and recommendation requests all day; it could use some mindless TV to help it recover.

And then his eyes landed on the empty pizza box that was still sitting on the living room table, and he sighed.

“Grif, didn’t I ask you to take that out last night?”

“Forgot,” Grif said around another mouthful of Doritos, picking up the remote so he could turn the TV on and flick through the channels. Simmons leaned over and snatched it from him, turning the TV back off and ignoring Grif’s “Hey!”

“No television until you throw that out,” Simmons said, putting the remote in the hand furthest from Grif and holding it aloft, where Grif couldn’t reach. “Just put it outside and it’ll be done.”

Grif’s attempt to get the remote back consisted of him leaning over and straining to reach, but Simmons’ arms were too long, so he ended up flopped in Simmons’ lap.

“But _Simmooonnnnssssss_.”

“It’ll take thirty seconds, I’m not doing it for you this time!”

Grif whined a bit longer before finally pushing himself up. He grabbed the pizza box, dragging his feet and whining dramatically all the way to the door, and yet. He was actually doing what Simmons had asked him to. It was huge progress, for Grif, and while Simmons waited for him to come back he settled onto the couch and felt his face split in a broad grin.

Donut had been right, all those weeks ago; Simmons _was_ the only person who could really get Grif to do anything. If he could keep this up, he’d have Grif doing actual chores in no time. Maybe he could even get Grif to cook every night, and do laundry every so often, maybe he’d even _unload the dishwasher--_

He heard the front door open. Instead of this being followed by Grif walking to the outside bin, there came the telltale sound of the pizza box dropping onto the porch before the door closed again.

Simmons’ smile faded, and he sighed. Okay, well. One thing at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that pizza box probably won't attract anything troublesome like birds or rats or anything, no way
> 
> thank you all so much again, for the kudos and the comments and the views, I appreciate it so much TUT

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr at blackgoliath, ironleaguers on twitter, and on pillowfort at bulkhead
> 
> also: check out [this super awesome art ](https://venochu.tumblr.com/post/181830521473/this-worked-pretty-well-for-a-while-until-a-very) for the first chapter!


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